Expertise in the game of Snooker has been described as
the result of a misspent youth, wasted in establishments of
dubious virtue.
Learning to survive in a hostile environment must surely
have some utility in this hectic modern
world.
The Annexe was a place of education. The male youth of the
time were instructed in the arts most useful for
employment. As 'Schools Day Release', they would learn that
there was an interesting, and technical world outside in
the real world. As 'Pre-Apprentice Students', normally
referred to as 'Pre-Apps', they would acquire skills that
would make them more appealing to local employers. In the
final stage, having secured an Apprenticeship, they learned
all the theoretical knowledge needed to hold down a
low-paid job for the next few years.
The College took in Apprentices in Mining, Electrical
Engineering, Mechanical Engineering, Motor Vehicle
Mechanics and Radio & TV Trades. Throw in a few courses
in Mathematics, Physics, English, Technical Drawing and
Physical Education, and the result was a well-rounded
Tradesman, able to command a good wage at the end of their
Apprenticeship - providing, of course, that they were
offered a job at the end of their time. There were no
guarantees on that score.
As to other educational requirements, the Annexe was
fortuitously located a few yards from the other local
source of knowledge - the Methil Miner's Welfare Institute.
Here, the students from the Annexe could learn those other
skills necessary to achieve adulthood. Snooker, Billiards,
Smoking, Swearing and Survival in a Hostile
Environment.
Within the Annexe, they were bound by, and protected by
rules designed to further their careers. Outside influences
were carefully screened and rationed as required.
In the Miner's Welfare, anyone could enter, pay the fee,
and play the table game of their choice. As long as they
complied with the table rules, there were no other
restrictions. By anyone, I mean anyone. Miners, dockers,
bookie's runners, bouncers, farmers, tinkers, and what my
mother would refer to as 'hoors and comic singers' - by the
last pair, I mean the rogues and wastrels of society. Women
were not really welcome. Not barred, but not necessary for
a good game of snooker. And no actual singers - that would
interfere with the game.
Imagine, for a moment, that you are a student at the Lower
Methil Annexe. A Mining Apprentice, perhaps. Sent there one
day a week by the National Coal Board. For that one day,
you could dress in clean clothes instead of a boiler-suit.
OK, it does resemble the school that you had just spent the
previous 10 years of your life, but no-one had to wear a
uniform. You could grow your hair long, and you had money -
not a lot, but more than pocket money! And after a day of
boring maths, and lessons in installing pit-props, what
greater attraction could there be. For the budding
hard-man, or the budget sportsman, nothing could surpass a
Snooker Hall. Success on the Table provided the admiration
of your peers. The Miner's Welfare had four tables - all
immaculately maintained. The clientele might be a bit
dodgy, but the tables were true and level. You could book
in advance, and the cost was very reasonable. Where else
would you go after the College? Only the dingier pubs down
in the High Street would allow under-age drinking, and the
earest dance-hall was way along in Buckhaven.
So, Snooker it is ...
Firstly, the rules. Simple, but inflexible, and sacrosanct.
Break any rule, and the Caretaker would issue a warning for
first time offenders. Ignorance was not considered a bar to
users of the Snooker Hall. Break a rule for the second time
(you had been warned, so ignorance was no longer an
available option) and you would be removed from the
premises. No argument, no appeal, and no return
match!
The table was never abused. No sitting on it - all shots
must be played with at least one foot on the floor -
somewhat similar to a Hollywood romantic bedroom scene.
Only the cue ball could be hit by the cue. None of the
other colours could be struck with the cue, and the cue
must never be used as a club or other implement of
violence. Cracking skulls could loosen the balance-weight
at the end of the cue
The person in play was free to choose wherever, and
whatever angle he required to play the shot. All
spectators, passers-by, and other players were required to
move out of the way of the player. No nudging, jogging of
elbows or other immature pranks were allowed. Snooker is a
serious game!
If any player was smoking a cigarette, it must never be
held over the table. No cigarette ash would ever be allowed
to fall on to the green baize of the table. The correct
procedure was to study the shot, decide on the angles, take
a puff, throw the cigarette (still burning) onto the
linoleum floor, play the shot, bask in the applause (if
successful), then retrieve the cigarette (still burning),
and have another puff or two.
No ball must be allowed to fall on to the floor. Due to the
excessive enthusiasm of some players who preferred massive
force to skill and science, the occasional ball did fly off
the table on to the floor. These things happen. One impact
would not usually entice the Caretaker from his duties
downstairs, but several in quick succession would guarantee
a premature and permanent end of play.
The one whimsy tolerated was drawing the tip of the cue
along the tassells on the over-table lights, just so you
could see them ripple along the shade.
The Snooker Hall lighting was sparse and diffused. The only
real illumination was over the tables, and the rest of the
hall faded into dark and forbidding corners. The players
fluttered around the over-table lights like moths, while
the spectators clung to the walls like shadowy predators in
the jungle. Stay in the light, and the 'no interference
with the player' rule guaranteed safety. Away from the
table, size, strength, guile, ruthlessness or speed were
useful in survival. Or anonymity. Non-threatening or
inoffensive behaviour worked. Sometimes.
In the outer darkness, malevolent forces lurked ...
I must confess that I spent some evenings in the Miner's Welfare. I enjoyed the occasional game of snooker, though I had neither the time nor patience to become really good at it. It was a pastime - not a career. And some of my 'business' transactions were with people who preferred to be out of the sunlight. There were few moral dilemmas here. The kind of transactions that I would have no truck with, were utterly forbidden in the Snooker Hall. No deep enquiry concerning property rights was one thing, but anyone pushing drugs was rapidly advised to travel far, and soon, for the benefit of their health. We had standards.
I was known, I had my connection with the College, and
stayed on nodding terms with the regular hard men. Each to
his patch. When strangers wandered in off the street, I
knew when to stay, or play the final black while standing
near to the exit. I was no faster, as a runner, than the
average man, but I had a game-winning advantage. The
Snooker Hall was on the 3rd floor - why massively heavy
snooker tables were always upstairs, I will never know! -
and there were several flights of stone stairs leading to
the street. Much practice, gained during a few desperate
encounters over the years, had taught me how to ski down
stairs. You never put your feet on the flat of the steps -
touch only the leading edge. You can flow down the steps,
with the slightest tug on the banister to swing yourself
around the corners. No hard landings if you get it right,
and far faster than someone running down the stairs.
Gravity gives you speed. Running delivers a crushing impact
on the wall as the pursuers fail to take the corner. I
could reach street level long before the pack could pick up
their bruised and winded bodies, and attempt the next stair
in a more careful manner.
I learned this tip from some ancient pulp novel, the
unremarkable plot and title lost with my youth, and thank
you to that unknown author. Necessity perfected my
technique. Do NOT try this at home - but bear it in mind if
you ever find yourself pursued by a gang of thugs who
favour bicycle chains as costume jewelry. Leave it till you
have an incentive. Or better still, pick more appealing
company than I did, for the evening.
That would be a fair description of the Miner's Welfare Institute, and I would have left it at that, had it not been for what occurred during the week of the Lower Methil Annexe Prize-giving. In the short space of that week, a whole underworld was overturned, scores were settled, and the Game of Snooker changed forever.
The College Prize-giving was an event that I tried
desperately to avoid. It was held in the evening, and I
would rather be doing my night-school work (paid!) or be
out and about having a little fun (unpaid!). The event
would drag on for hours, bums perched on narrow wooden
chairs, while guest speakers, with narrow minds and
oratorical talents more wooden than the chairs, would
prance around the podium, riding their own unique
educational hobby-horses. A classic example being a local
Member of Parliament (name long since forgotten) who spoke
entirely around the theme of 'how he had succeeded in life
without the benefit of a formal education'. Somehow, as he
spoke, the entire audience concurred on the 'lack of an
education' part, but were prepared to argue the 'success'
proposition.
The previous year, I had been one of the 'lucky'
prizewinners - I had scored top marks in the recently
introduced 'Radio, TV and Electronics Examination. It was
one of the fashionable new-style multiple choice'
examination papers. It was hardly a difficult exam - the
questions were fairly simple ...
A transistor is a ...
(A) small radio
(B) semiconductor device
(C) travelling salesman
(D) Cornish Pasty
... and I posessed an unbeatable advantage. Jimmy Baxter
was on the national committee that decided on the format
and scope of the new Radio, TV and Electronics course. With
a lot of teaching to do - Pre-App, Coal Board and Radio
& TV - and pressed for time, Jimmy had asked me to
cobble up some sample multiple-choice questions that he
could present to the national committee. As I was actually
on that first course, and a Laboratory Technician, Jimmy
reckoned that I knew what would be suitable. I appreciated
the trust and worked hard to give him some good questions -
nearly one hundred, to be told. He was quite pleased, and
duly presented them to the committee.
When I sat the examination at the end of the year, I was
able to note that the committee had not used all of those
questions created by myself. Only eighty were chosen. I
felt that the only reasonable thing to do was to ensure
that I scored 100%. It would hardly be fitting to achieve
less with the exam paper that I had personally written. I
never felt that I had cheated. After all, it was an
examination to test my knowledge of the course, and I think
that I had confirmed that beyond any reasonable
doubt!
Being the top student on the course (Pass with
Distinction), I was awarded a book prize, and required to
attend the ceremony. I tried to decline - I wanted neither
the book, the ceremony nor the potentially embarrassing
spotlight - but I was required to attend. The Principal's
Secretary, Miss Penelope Pillan, came all the way from the
main College in Kirkcaldy, to persuade me to attend. She
was very persuasive, never as much as hinted what the
alternative might be, but left me in no doubt that failure
to show the flag at the annual Prize-giving might result in
a future where dark cellars, rat infestation and other
Orwellian tortures were possible.
I was sure that 'Penny Lope' as the student body referred
to Miss Pillan, was a very nice person. Rizla Napier, a
perceptive judge of character, called her 'Penelope', but
everyone else agreed that a visit from some axe-carrying,
bronze breast-plated Valkyrie from the Viking Sagas, would
be infinitely preferable to spending five minutes being
'persuaded' by Penny Lope. If anyone had ever called her
that to her face - an exceedingly unlikely event - then I
am certain that they never found the body afterwards.
I called her 'Miss Pillan'. As infrequently as possible.
The week leading up to the College Prize-giving had been a
busy one. Everyone had known for weeks, just who were the
winners, but the annual conversion of the College gymnasium
into a suitable venue for VIPs, assorted guests and the odd
gatecrasher, had kept me working flat-out. I roped in any
wandering strays who were foolish enough to spend their
free periods with reach, and employed them in
chair-placing, floor sweeping, and keep-fit equipment
hiding. Prize winners were easy prey - they always came to
reconnoitre the hall in preparation, and felt obliged to
assist when press-ganged into service.
I had arranged for two of the Coal Board apprentices to do
the decoration, and arrange the seating lists. Emil Brunton
and George Burnside had achieved something unique in the
College history - an outstanding performance in classroom
work and an identical mark in the yearly examinations.
After a discrete, but thorough, check to eliminate any
suspicion that some form of collusion was involved, it was
decided to present the Top Coal Board Student award to both
of them. And richly deserved, in my opinion.
George Burnside was usually called 'Rabbie', for fairly
obvious reasons. Emil Brunton ended up as 'Emily', mainly
because no-one could quite figure out a name like Emil. He
was even described that way in the College register.
They were bright, smartly turned out - they had even turned
up earlier in the day, dressed in neat suits, complete with
waist-coats. I had said 'dress rehearsal', but had only
intended it to be a metaphorical statement. Well, they were
young, and there's nothing wrong with that.
After the day school finished at four, I had let them go
free, telling them to be back by seven, to help me with the
final set-up. They elected to nip down the road to the
Miner's Welfare Institute. They had a table booked for a
frame of snooker and a deserved a moment of relaxation. I
told them to keep a careful eye on the denizens of the
snooker hall (I did explain what a 'denizen' was!). I had
heard rumblings around the neighbourhood concerning
possible changes in the thuggery pecking order. A top thug
is confident in his place, but can turn nasty if that place
is threatened, and rivals and other contenders rarely care
about which rungs are occupied on the corporate ladder.
Hangers-on can fall (or be pushed) off, and bystanders can
get hurt in drive-by incidents. Not quite Chicago, perhaps,
but even a little violence can be just as painful.
"Watch out you two!" had been my parting advice. "Be here
at seven sharp."
"Aw surr!" had protested Emily Brunton. "It's just a game
o' snooker!"
"Emily!" retorted Rabbie Burnside "When ah play, it's a
game o' champions!"
"Aye. Wi' oor sharp suits, it'll be a real sharp game.
What's there to worry aboot? We'll be back afore
seven."
Young, and confident! You had to smile.
"Make sure that you do. And watch out for that bampot Malky
McLaren. I hear that he's got his hand in the mix,
somewhere."
"Nae tother a'baw!" piped in Emily. "We'll be back on time,
so we will."
"Same for me, surr." joined in Rabbie. "We heard a' aboot
McLaren's leaving day. He hasnae got the bottle, him. See
yiz then!"
I watched them head for the Miner's Welfare, and with lots
to do, I forced any concerns from my mind. Like myself,
they would learn to run fast. Snooker taught you that.
By half-past seven, those concerns were back. No sign of
Emily or Rabbie. Not like them at all. Time to go looking.
I grabbed my jacket, and headed for the door, but before I
could cross the foyer, the wooden doors, with their
diamond-cut glass windows, stuttered then swung open.
Rabbie Burnside slid in, his back holding the door open,
then pulled Emily Brunton in beside him. Emily could barely
stand. Only Rabbie's support kept him upright. The two
smart and witty students of the afternoon had been replaced
by the battered and bloody relics of a terrible
beating.
Rabbie's head was streaming with blood, his right eye
barely open. At least he was able to stand. Emily's
inability to stand unaided, told me all that I wanted to
know. A good kicking does that to you. You can try to walk,
but the agony won't let you. I rushed across and helped
Rabbie bring Emily into the College. I didn't try to be
gentle - there were no comfortable places to hold.
Rabbie spat crimson.
"It wis that bastert McLaren, surr! I tried tae help Emily,
surr. Ah did. But they held me, an' a couldnae get tae
him!"
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood.
"Honest, surr! Ah tried. Ah did! Ah tried!"
Together, we got Emily across the foyer, and into Rizla
Napier's office. The door was unlocked - Rizla had no need
of security. We sat Emily down in a chair, and Rabbie stood
beside him, refusing to abandon his friend. Emily held his
arms tightly around his body. Only those battered arms had
saved him from far worse injury. Sensing that, possibly, he
was, at last, in some sanctuary, Emily opened his eyes, and
looked at me.
"Is Rabbie aw richt surr?" A tiny voice, tremulous, but
determined. "Ah thocht that, if they wis kickin' me, then
Rabbie could get awa'."
I looked at the pair of them, and shook my head in wonder.
Two veterans of the war. Bloodied but unbroken. Who could
ever find two better friends?
I stuck my head out of the office door. The foyer was
filling with the curious and the concerned.
"Right, you lot! Show's over!"
I pointed at two of the nearest.
"You! Get the first aid box."
One scurried off to the nearest classroom.
"And you! Get Mister Baxter - he's upstairs - and ask him
to come here."
The second student spun round, and headed for the
stairs.
"And ..."
He stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"... ask him tae come here bluidy quick! Make that please!"
There would be hell to pay. But first we had to get the
facts. If there was going to be a war, then we had to know
what we were up against.
Though, however it turned out, that 'bastert' McLaren was
going to get his share of grief!
As I waited for Jimmy Baxter to come downstairs to Rico
Napier's office, I opened up the First-Aid box brought by a
student. I was hoping that the box would contain something
that would help Rabbie Burnside and Emily Brunton, that
would ease their suffering.
Alas, like most institutionalised medical kits of the time,
most of the useful items had been used, stolen or would be
more appropriate to some TV drama where severity of wound
equalled acreage of bandage. Even the packet of aspirin had
been replaced by some wit's idea of emergency supplies - a
packet of Woodbines with only three cigarettes left. A
triangular bandage and some safety pins would be ideal if
someone outside in the gathering crowd just happened to
fall and break an arm.
I did a quick Coal Board triage. Rabbie Burnside's injuries
looked dramatic, blood everywhere! Like most head wounds in
a punch-up, the few cuts and bruises were relatively minor.
Some sticking plaster would hold everything together until
a proper medic could stitch up his face. He'd be looking
around with one eye for a day or two, but no serious damage
was done. He could walk. He could get up the pit.
Emily Brunton gave me greater concern. He'd been through a
kicking, and all kind of damage was possible. His face was
untouched - his assailant had concentrated on the body - so
that was good. The secret of surviving a kicking relies on
keeping yourself curled up in the foetal position and using
your arms and legs as shield. If you can keep facing your
attacker, and protect the ribs, face and genitals, then you
can live with a broken arm or two - we were never going to
be short of triangular bandages. If you expose your back,
then the ribs get hammered, and the real trouble
begins.
I moved Emily's arms gently away from his body. He was
reluctant at first - no way could I blame him for that. It
must have hurt terribly, but I had to check his ribs. Very,
very carefully. Broken ribs can form their own dagger. He
didn't need me to make matters worse. It was a slow
process, and I watched his face closely. That is where the
damage would show as I worked my way around.
As Rabbie Burnside followed my every move, I then checked
out his arms and legs.
"Emily. You are going to have the worst tattoo that you
have ever seen, and you are going to need a hand if you are
thinking of downing a pint in the next day or so, but
nothing appears broken. I hate to say this, but you have
been lucky!"
Amazingly, after I had probably caused him more pain than
the original kicking, he thanked me!
"I don't think your waistcoat is going to make it, though.
It's been well torn. The lining is ripped, the buttons are
missing, and I don't think that the bloodstains are going
to come out."
"It wis the waistcoats that did it, Surr."
Rabbie picked at his own bloodstained shirt.
"When we wis playin' the game, Malky McLaren wis haundin'
oot the snide remarks. We tried tae ignore him, but he kept
at us. Keepin' his voice doon, so as the Caretaker couldnae
hear him, he jist kept on mouthin' at us."
Emily tried to sit more upright in the chair, but he
obviously wasn't about to manage on his own. Rabbie was
there in an instant, and helped him sit up. Somehow, he
managed it without even a flinch on Emily's face. With a
gentleness like that, I knew that Rabbie Burnside would one
day do great things. He had a talent.
"Ah told him tae back off ..."
Emily continued the story.
"... but he wouldn't stop. He wis there with the rest o'
them, and he had tae look big. Just 'cause we wis dressed a
bit fancy, he h'd nae right to say the things he wiz
sayin."
Emily looked embarrassed, and more uncomfortable with the
recollection than he did with his bruises.
"Ah ken that awbody calls me Emily - ah dae mind that - but
Rabbie and me, we're pals. We're no funny, that way, if yiz
kens what ah mean! So ah told him to 'eff off!'"
Rabbie took over for the next part, as Emily sank back into
the seat, his eyes half-closed.
"Malky couldnae dae much in the Snooker Hall, while we wis
still playin', so he h'd tae back off. Emily and me played
it smart, and finished the game. Ah potted the black while
we wis as close tae the door as we could get. Malky wis at
the faur side o' the table, when we made our final break -
no' a snooker break, mind ye - and we w'd hiv been awright,
oot through the door, doon the stairs an' awa! But Malky
h'd sent his cousin out there furst. When Emily got through
the ootside door, he wis waitin'. He tripped Emily an' h'd
him on the ground. I tried tae get him up, but Malky wis
oot at the back o' us. He grabbed me, an' his cousin nutted
me in the heid!"
Rabbie touched his swollen eyelid and lacerated brow.
"Then the cousin got me in a neck lock, and Malky laid in
tae Emily. Ah thought he w'd never stop, but a car came up
the brae and stopped alongside us. Malky an' his cousin
buggered off. Basterts that they were! The man in the car
asked us if 'we wis a'right', and 'should he get the
polis'. Ah sayed we wis OK. Naebody w'd thank us for
bringing the polis intae it. Especially no' around the
Miner's Welfare. That's no the place for them."
Rabbie looked at his pal.
"Ah brought him here where awbody is. Ah telled him he'd be
safe here."
The pair looked up at me.
"That wiz the right thing tae dae, wiz it no, Surr?"
Before I could answer, the door opened. Jimmy Baxter
bustled into the room. Followed by Penelope Pillan. I'd
forgotten that she was here to check the preparations for
the Prize-Giving. My heart sank. When this all got to the
Principal, everything would escalate out of control. It
would be the Methil Annexe, complicated by police
involvement, versus every hard man and nutter in the East
of Fife. No-one would win. We would all surely lose. And
every student for years to come, would need to walk around
the shadows and run from every strange face or threatening
gesture. The Miner's Welfare would no longer be a neutral
meeting place between the clans.
M.A.D. - Mutually Assured Destruction - was coming to
Methil.
With Miss Pillan in attendance (in the same room, there was
no way I could even think 'Penny Lope!), it was time to
turn Rabbie and Emily over to the senior staff. I had
other, urgent, things to attend to. Jimmy and Miss Pillan
would deal with the 'official' side of things, and I would
deal with the murkier details.
I gave a concise report on events, entirely accurate but
totally devoid of any of the ramifications. I was sure that
Miss Pillan would pass them on to the Principal and the
Main College. Jimmy Baxter gave me a shrewd look, but left
it at that. Rabbie and Emily were in good hands - Jimmy
would see to their welfare - and Miss Pillan would
undoubtedly organise their medical needs with her usual
thoroughness. I felt a twinge of real sympathy for them, at
that point.
And organise them, she did! Within a minute, she had
procured the first-aid supplies required (from where, I
know not!), and led them with a firm gentleness to the
nearest washroom - which just happened to be the Gents. No
knocking on the door for Penny Lope. She marched in - and
the recent occupants scurried out like cockroaches ahead of
a broom.
"It would have been far more convenient, Mister Baxter, if
this establishment had boasted a Ladies!"
This addressed to Jimmy as she ushered her charges into the
washroom.
"Convenient for who?" I thought. "She does know that Emily
is a bloke, don't she?"
"I'll be wanting further words with you, later, Mister
Collins! Don't go away."
That threw me for a moment! Nobody ever called me Mister
Collins - except Penelope Pillan, who seemed to have added
exceptional hearing or mind-reading to her wide array of
talents.
But first, I had to deal with the crowd. The curious and
the concerned were talking each other up into an angry mob.
And mobs never think. They just get up on their hind legs,
and rush out into the street.
"Is Emily and Rabbie OK?"
"Wiz it them at the Miner's Welfare that beat them
up?"
"We're no gonna stand for that!"
"Time they wiz sorted oot"
"Aye! Let's get ower there!"
I did my Sheriff and the Lynch Mob cliche. I had seen so
many Westerns, that I could play the part from
memory.
"Naebody's gaun naeplace!" I snapped out in my finest
Glen-Gary Cooper.
"Emily and Rabbie are a bit the worse for wear, but they'll
be alright."
Richie Walker, one of the senior students from the Radio
& TV Department, stood at the front of the mob.
"An' we'll be the wans tae sort it! Ain't that
right!"
I pushed myself forward, into the thick of the crowd. Every
eye followed me. I could understand where he was coming
from, but there was no way that I could let Richie Walker
enlarge on his theme.
"Don't be bluidy stupitt, Richie! Think about it. Do ye no
think that ye'll be giving them exactly what they want? Go
across to the Miner's Welfare if ye like, and see what
happens. The thugs that did it tae Rabbie and Emily, did it
by the rules. Go in there like this and ye'll all be wrong.
The College'll get banned - no more snooker - and the
scumbags will own the place."
To his credit, Richie Walker did think about it, and had
the grace to apologise.
"Sorry Surr! See what ye mean. But what can we dae? We
can't let them get away with it!"
"Oh, never fear, they won't!"
I spoke with a conviction - more Hollywood than real.
"What are ye gaun tae dae, Surr?"
"I don't know - yet! - but I'll do something. You can be
sure o' that!"
You could always guarantee that Wee Wullie would offer his
unstinting support.
"See! Ah telt yiz! Surr will sort them oot, so he
will."
"Oh shit!" This to myself.
"Now who's stupid! You have just talked yourself into the
final reel of High Noon! I had just elected myself to the
position of the Lone Sheriff. And I didn't even have an
old, drunken deputy to back me up with a shotgun. Double
shit!"
I felt a presence at my back, and turned slowly around.
Miss Pillan was a tall woman, and I am sure that she had
the flicker of a smile on those forbidding lips as she
looked me straight in the eye.
"Gary Cooper? Mister Collins. Surely not!"
I did say 'mind-reader', did I not!"
With the mob at my back, and Penny Lope at my front,
somehow, walking single-handed into a saloon full of
desperadoes seemed the slightest of cares.
"We must 'organise' something for tomorrow, must we
not?"
"Tomorrow? What? Who? We ..."
I was really starting to sound like an idiot.
"You are familiar with the Miner's Welfare Institute, are
you not?"
Miss Pillan was quietly reasonable - while I was
frantically contemplating flight.
"I am sure that you could arrange a table of snooker, for
two, tomorrow night at seven. If possible, of
course."
"What about the Prize-Giving? It's tomorrow at seven
..."
"Was tomorrow!" Very positively.
"... and the guests, the Principal ..."
"Will surely understand, given the 'unfortunate' accident
that befell Mister Brunton and Mister Burnside."
I was beginning to understand the relationship between
moths and pins.
"A postponement of a week should suffice."
That smile was back again.
"I'll see you at half-six, tomorrow. I'll come suitably
dressed."
Penelope Pillan pulled out the pin, and let the moth
escape.
"Don't forget, now."
She was gone.
As I stood there, sweating, head spinning, I could find no
coherent thought to move me on. Till the unmistakable voice
of Wee Wullie announced to a pacified audience who had hung
on to every word spoken.
"That Penny Lope is some wummin! Ah think ye've scored
there Surr, so ye have!"
I could only hope that someone would shoot me before
tomorrow.
Less embarrassing!
After a dreadful night, with little sleep, and lots of
frantic thinking, I had a plan! Well, two plans, actually.
The first involved staying in bed and trying to pretend
that it was the weekend. That way, I might eventually fall
asleep with exhaustion and postpone the inevitable. Hide
beneath the covers.
The second just might get me hospitalised, but that was
probably better than facing everyone at the Annexe, and
explaining why I was letting everyone down. I had talked
myself into the grand confrontation, and that was that. I
was far too scared to run away, and you can't run away from
yourself.
It was a close contest, and by the time I had washed and dressed, and crammed down a reluctant breakfast, I was going to be a few minutes late when I arrived at the Annexe. That being so, I reckoned that being a few more minutes late wouldn't matter. I walked straight past the front door of the College, and headed down the hill to the Miner's Welfare Institute. I needed to speak to the Caretaker, and it made sense to do so, as early as possible. No self-respecting mafia boss, henchman or general-purpose thug would be up and about before noon. Later in the day, it would be difficult running the gauntlet. Gary Cooper had it easy - he only had to wait till twelve o'clock. I had a long day ahead, and a lot to arrange.
I found the Caretaker, sitting alone in his room. Cup of tea in hand, and the Daily Record open at the sports pages. When you work from early morning till after closing, at ten at night, you pace yourself. No rush - just do the job when the job needs doing.
"Good morning, Mister Redman."
I had known Bob Redman for years, but this conversation had
to go by the book. No favours. No special terms.
"Mister Collins!"
The Caretaker laid down the newspaper, then casually lifted
his mug and sipped a mouthful of tea.
"And what can I do for you, today? Don't usually see you
here this early."
A polite untruth. The Caretaker probably never saw any of
the Institute's snooker players before noon. It is not a
morning game.
"I'd like to book a table of snooker, for two, at seven
o'clock tonight. If one is available."
Another sip of tea. The Caretaker paused for a moment, cup
upheld, then took another sip. You could see him thinking,
but it certainly was not about who might have previously
booked a table for tonight. Bob Redman never took notes,
and never misplaced an appointment. Ever!
"A table at seven. Tonight. Snooker."
He raised his face up from the mug, and looked straight at
me.
"Are you sure you want to play, tonight?"
I nearly panicked, and said 'No!', but my mouth wouldn't
let me. I nodded, instead. The Caretaker took another sip
of his tea. Then another. I tried not to fidget.
"Let's see."
Bob consulted his internal timetable for a minute.
"I've got Harry, from the taxi place down the hill. He's
got a table booked all night. And Massimmo Marietti is
playing one of his ice-cream van drivers tonight - one of
those 'meet the boss' evenings, I believe. Then there's
that new guy from Aberhill. Jeck McLaren." Bob grimaced and
spat a tea leaf into the plastic bin beside his chair.
"Can't see him giving up his night. He's been here a lot,
recently." Bob dabbed at his tongue with a tobacco-stained
finger, briefly looking for another leaf, then moved
on.
"Well, Geordie Watson was going to play a few frames of
billiards tonight, but I suppose if I talk to him, he'll be
happy enough to pick another night. He's a quiet boy, minds
his own business, and doesn't like a fuss. Things have been
a bit tight here recently, and billiards needs a bit of
peace and quiet. It's not a flash game like snooker."
The Caretaker regarded me for a moment, then nodded.
"I'll put you down for seven, then."
I thanked him, and pulled a pound note out of my pocket. I
offered it to him, but he held up his hand in
refusal.
"I don't know what's going to happen tonight, but either
way, I'm not going to take your money. Wouldn't be right.
I've known you for years, and you're not an idiot, evidence
to the contrary ..."
A quiet smile, and a sip of tea.
"... but there's been a few things happening around here,
of late. And there could be a lot of trouble coming in your
direction. I heard about last night - don't like it much at
all - but it happened outside the building, and there's not
a lot I can do about that."
I was about to turn around, nothing more to say, when Bob
reached out and touched my arm.
"Remember! It's all got to be by the rules. That's how it
works here. Everyone is agreed on that. By the
rules!"
He drew me closer, and spoke in a quiet voice, for my ear
only.
"By the rules, mind. Break them, and you'll get a warning.
The second time - you're out. So if it comes to it, pick
your time. You've only got one shot. Same with your
partner. Make it count."
The Caretaker went back to his tea, and the sports page. I
headed for the door.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
His final words reached me as I passed out through the
door. If I had totally honest with myself at that moment,
the answer would have been 'No!'.
I wandered in to Jimmy Baxter's office at half-past nine.
Jimmy looked up from the exam papers that he was
preparing.
"Wondered when you would turn up!"
Jimmy was tactful enough not to say 'if'.
"Been somewhere?"
It must have been the lack of sleep that brought about the
quixotic moment.
"In the shadow paths of early dawn where the quiet truths
and subtle lies await the half-slept traveller."
Jimmy gave a very strange look, with furrowed brow and
raised eyebrows.
"Eh?"
"It's a quote, Jimmy. From somewhere. It popped into my
head." From the puzzled look on Jimmy's face, it would be
better if the quote popped back out again.
"I've been over at the Miner's Welfare Institute. Booking a
table for tonight."
Jimmy Baxter's face switched from puzzlement to concern -
for my sanity.
"Is that a good idea?"
Real concern.
"No, Jimmy. It is not. But it has to be done."
"Are you sure that you know what you're doing?"
I could only tell myself 'Yes'. I was getting a lot of
practice, recently. Lying to myself. To Jimmy, I simply
shrugged.
"And I hear that Penelope Pillan is taking part tonight, in
whatever you have planned."
So far, the only plan in my head was surviving the
day.
"Well, if you ask me." said Jimmy "You're daft!".
I could hardly disagree with him.
"But if you are playing snooker with Penelope Pillan, then
I am definitely coming to watch!"
Jimmy looked up in bemused contemplation. I could hardly
believe it. I could have sworn that Jimmy Baxter looked
envious! Of me!
I was booked to play snooker. In the heart of Mafia
country. With a woman whom I barely knew. With extreme
violence as a distinct possibility. (Only for me. Miss
Pillan would be safe. She was a woman, and violence towards
her would be unthinkable in the macho male bandido culture
that reigned in the Miner's Welfare Institute.)
Jimmy brought events back to a more practical level.
"Can I help in any way?"
I faced Jimmy, squarely, and made the only request I
could.
"Don't ask, Jimmy. And don't wonder what I'm doing."
Jimmy was about to protest, but I cut him off.
"Whatever happens, tonight, the Annexe has nothing to do
with it. Officially, it is just me and guest. Playing a
game of snooker."
Jimmy had his head screwed on the right way.
"And un-officially?"
I laughed. It came out without prompting, but the humour
was there.
"As I said, Jimmy. Don't ask!"
Jimmy shrugged, but left it at that.
"Just come along and enjoy the show."
I hoped that Penny Lope was bringing a shotgun!
Necessity may be the 'mother of invention', but desperation can really facilitate the birth. I needed a plan before tonight, and if I couldn't take the official path, I could certainly start rooting around in the undergrowth. I knew exactly where to start ...
The class in Motor Vehicle Mechanics would be starting in
about ten minutes, and I needed the services of my two
favourite villains. Right on cue, the diabolical duo
appeared.
"Hutcheson! Cunningham! A word, if you please."
Peter 'Podge' Cunningham looked instantly guilty, but
Campbell 'Too Hot' Hutcheson was more practiced in dealing
with authority.
"If it's about thae bags o' cement that's sittin in the
boiler-house, ah've got a receipt ..."
Hutcheson fumbled around in the pocket of his suspiciously
new and expensive-looking leather jacket, and produced a
crumpled piece of paper. He offered it to me in a tight
grasp that dared me to pry apart his fingers, and take it.
I knew the game, and took him 'at his word' - it was
probably an ancient receipt for sub-standard rivets
supplied to the R.M.S Titanic. I had more urgent matters to
discuss.
"I need a favour from you two."
Hutcheson's face lit up, as he kick-started his internal
cash register.
"I need someone taken out."
Survival instinct made Hutcheson step smartly back, pulling
his bigger, but slower friend with him. The pair made a
living, paddling around in Methil's murky backwaters. This
was way out of their depth. Hutcheson dropped into his
pantomime stage whisper.
"Noo, steady on, Surr! That's askin' a bit much, even for
us! We dae mind the odd 'commercial transaction', ken what
ah mean, but we're no intae bumpin folk aff!"
I do believe that I had plumbed beyond the depths of Too
Hot' Hutcheson's villainy.
"For heaven's sake, Hutcheson! I don't want anyone
killed!"
"No sae loud, Surr! No sae loud!" Hutcheson's cautionary
whisper swept over any exasperation of mine.
"I just want someone unavailable for tonight. I want them
'somewhere else'."
Hutcheson's profit gland over-rode his caution, and brought
him back into conspiracy mode. He drew Podge Cunningham and
himself back into the huddle.
"How d'ye mean, Surr?"
"You know about the snooker match, tonight?" Silly
question. Most of Methil knew by now.
"What? The wan with you and Penny Lope? Aye, we've heard,
ain't we, Podge?"
Cunningham bent over, his massive shoulders blocking out
the light.
"Oh, that's right! We heard about you and Miss Pillan.
That's a really nice woman, that is. Helped us oot when my
mither had her troubles. You'll be dae'n allw right wi'
her."
We both looked at Podge. That must have been the longest
speech either of us had heard from him. Penelope Pillan had
really made her mark on Podge Cunningham.
"Aye! Umm ... So back to tonight, Surr! What exactly dae ye
want us for?"
"I want you to make sure that Wee Jeck McLaren is not going
to be at the Miner's Welfare tonight. I've got a game to
play, and Wee Jeck hasn't got the brains to realise when to
stay away. If he's there, then he'll either try to impress
his dad, and do something really stupid. Or he'll follow
Malky McLaren's lead, and it's anybody's guess where
that'll end up."
I offered Hutcheson the clincher in the deal.
"Whatever happens tonight, I'll owe you one."
Too Hot Hutcheson, a man for all kinds of larceny, and any
dodgy deal, proceeded to surprise me.
"Naw, Surr! This one's on the hoose. After what thae
McLarens did tae Emily and Rabbie, last nicht, they deserve
aw they'll get. We'll tak' care o' Wee Jeck." He cocked an
eye to Podge, who grinned right back at him.
"Did ye have anythin particular in mind?"
"I don't want him hurt. And nothing too illegal. I just
don't want him turning up unexpectedly. I'll leave the
details up to you and Podge."
Which just went to prove that, where the McLaren tribe were
concerned, I had no conscience whatsoever.
"Leave it tae us, Surr!"
Podge flexed the largest pair of biceps in Methil.
"He's only 'Wee' Jeck, is he no?"
Well, perhaps a faint trace of conscience. I suppressed it.
One down. Everybody else to go. I was well aware that another Rabbie (Burns, not Burnside) had stated that 'the plans of men and men aft gang aglay'. The plan for tonight would involve dealing with rats. That would promote the chance of a favourable outcome.
The next part was far more complex. Malky McLaren was next
on the agenda. And tempting as it might be, to simply kick
the little 'bastert' from one end of Methil to the other,
mere retribution was never going to be enough. I had one
chance to settle things with Malky, and I wanted it to be
final. Malky McLaren would never be able to bother Emily
Brunton or Rabbie Burnside again, and he would be staying
as far away from the Annexe as his nasty little boots would
take him. Not a hair on his head would be touched, nor even
a threat of violence would be made in his direction.
I had thought long, on the 'disposition' of Mister McLaren
- ex student of the Annexe, thief, bully and thug. And my
intention was to destroy forever, all that made Malky
McLaren the evil that he was.
I searched out Richie Walker, Colin Rintoul, and a few other of the senior students. I explained exactly what I had in mind. They spread the word to the other students, and they would organise what I had planned for Malky. Nothing violent (I made that very clear) - just a little magic. Smoke, mirrors and suggestion. Malky McLaren would provide his own, well deserved, downfall.
All I had to do now, was wait for tonight.
And my date with Penelope Pillan.
The difficult part.
Some days go by quickly. Some go slowly. The day of the snooker match played like a clockwork gramophone, becoming ever slower as the spring wound down. I felt like a small child, forced to attend the wedding of a close relative. It is always the same. The children are scrubbed, and changed into their finery first - hours before the event. They are then forced to run around for hours, nothing to do, and bored witless. Never daring to put one minuscule mark on those fine clothes, and forbidden to participate in any way, lest some mischief escalate into a disaster, and spoil the 'big day'!
It was almost a relief, when Too Hot Hutcheson appeared at
my workshop door.
"What on earth are you doing here?"
Was this the first stumble into disaster?
"It's alright, Surr!"
Hutcheson looked far too happy for my comfort.
"A'thing's been taken care o'. Ye can depend on
that!"
Depending on Hutcheson felt like examining the frayed ropes
on a disintegrating bridge in a Tarzan epic. And this was
only part one of the plan!
"Where's Podge?"
Where Hutcheson preyed, Podge Cunningham was sure to
follow.
"Everything's fine. He'll be here in a minute. He's just
lockin up his bike."
I never could grasp the concept of Podge Cunningham
securing his motorbike. Who would be insane enough to steal
it?
"More important ..."
I found myself imitating Hutcheson's pantomime
whisper.
"... where's Wee Jeck McLaren?"
"Dundee. He's in Dundee. Podge ran him there on his
motorbike."
"On his motorbike!" I checked my watch (I'd been doing that
a lot, recently).
"Even if the pair of you had met Wee Jeck on the way out
the door, after your class, Podge would have needed to
average ..."
A quick bit of mental arithmetic.
... "nearly 90 miles an hour to get there and back."
The sudden eclipse told me that Podge had joined the
conversation.
"Only 90, Surr? Ah wiz tryin fur a hunnert mile an
hour."
Podge Cunningham even looked a little disappointed.
"Never mind! Ah think Wee Eck enjoyed the trip. He wiz
screamin with excitement all the way tae Dundee."
"He went with you to Dundee? On your bike?
Voluntarily?"
I had been given a lift home one night, round about
January, when the roads were icy. Podge Cunningham
resolutely refused to ever use the brakes, only the
throttle. And the clutch, once only to start the journey.
After that, I walked. In any weather. Podge lived up to his
nickname, so needed the most powerful bike he could lay his
hands on. He might have been slow of thought, but when
sitting on his Triumph/Norton special, he had the reflexes
of a cat. I had the bowels of a mere human.
"Naebody forced him."
Hutcheson filled in the details.
"I asked him if he wanted a lift, and Podge kind o'
insisted. Nae violence, mind. Nane o' that. Just asked him.
Funny thing is ... he never even asked Podge where he wiz
goin."
"So, you left him in Dundee?"
Podge nodded.
"And what happens if he manages to get a bus back, or hitch
a lift? He could be back here before seven."
"Ah, well, here's the cunnin bit, Surr. Podge insisted that
he pay for the petrol, so he's no got any money for the
bus."
Another voluntary gesture by Wee Jeck, no doubt.
"What about hitching a lift, though. He could still hitch a
lift. I've done that myself, more than a few times."
I pride myself in spotting the flaws in a plan. Podge
Cunningham removed that possibility, with a mildly
embarrassed revelation.
"Ah don't think he'll be getting a lift, Surr. No with his
wee accident."
"Podge! I told you that I didn't want him hurt."
"Naw! Naw! We didnae hurt him."
Hutcheson reproved me for accusing Podge.
"He had a bit o' an accident. He got over-excited ... and
peed himself!"
Podge Cunningham nodded, and Too Hot Hutcheson continued
the saga. With relish.
"No just that. He had another accident. Accident number
two, you could say."
"You mean, he ..."
"Aye, that he did. The reek wiz terrible, so it wiz!
"Ah had tae clean the pillion, so ah did. He's no gettin
back on mah bike again!"
I had to agree. Wee Jeck would by walking the Road, and the
Miles fae Dundee.
"Did we dae alright, Surr?"
Podge looked anxious.
"You did great, Podge."
I shook his hand.
"Never seen anything done so well. You and Hutcheson, you
are champions."
I shook Too Hot Hutcheson's hand as well, and never even
stopped to count my fingers.
One goal in the net for the home team. I hoped that the
rest of the evening would match up to the opening move.
By six o'clock, I had been through enough 'man-to-man' pep talks to last a lifetime. Every member of staff had felt compelled to 'wish me luck' and offer a multitude of helpful suggestions - entirely on an 'unofficial' basis, of course - based on their own, personal experiences. I thanked them all, even 'Buggy' Sparks, the Welding Instructor, who's 'practical' advice amounted to burning the Miner's Welfare Institute to the ground, after allowing sufficient time for the miscreants inside, to flee to safety via the exits. I declined on the basis that it would be too difficult to remove the snooker tables to a safe place before the conflagration took hold.
Richie Walker popped in just after six, to inform me that
the next part of the plan was in place.
"We've got every road, in or oot, covered. At least three
boys tae every street aroond the area. Ah made sure that
they had at least one big student in each group - twa where
Wee Wullie wiz standin."
"Did you explain exactly what was required, to
everybody?"
I had to be sure that no one was tempted to give Malky
McLaren the kicking he deserved.
"For definite, Surr! Made sure, and told them mahsel.
'Operation Rawhide' will go like clockwork!"
"'Operation who' ..."
This plan was developing new aspects, all on its own.
"'Operation Rawhide', Surr. Like on the telly! Where they
drive all those coo's aroond."
"I think I've got the picture, Richie. Let us hope that
this particular 'coo' plays his role."
Richie thought for a few moments, then asked the question
that had been plain on his face since the beginning.
"We aw understand whit we have tae dae. Keep Malky away fae
the Institute. Keep him runnin aroond and gettin nae place.
We understand that part. But why dae ye want us tae herd
Malky doon tae the bottom o' the brae? And why no until
quarter tae eight? There's nothin' doon there but the Polis
Station. With the fear o' the devil in him, and all us
chasin him, he's liable tae run intae the Polis Station,
and rat on us. He's like that!"
"That, Richie, is exactly what I want him to do. And the
minute he does, make sure everybody disappears. Don't get
involved - and don't stop what happens next."
"That's the bit none o' us understand."
Richie still looked perplexed.
"Don't worry about it, Richie. If you just happen to turn
up at the Miner's Welfare Institute at eight, I'm sure
you'll get all the answers. Off you go, now. Let 'Operation
Rawhide' commence!"
I said that with a straight face. Show them confidence! If
it didn't work out as I planned, I might need all the
muscle I could get. Just to make it to the door. With my
shield - or on it!
I was starting to think that tonight's game would be a solo
effort - just the one Spartan - when the College doors
swung open, and Penelope Pillan made her entrance. There
should have been spotlights, a fanfare of trumpets,
reporters jostling for a quote, photographers treading on
each other's toes for that one shot that would grace the
front page.
She was magnificent!
She advanced through the bystanders like Godiva on her
white steed. To the average student who had, only in the
past year, recognised that girls exist, she must have
seemed like Hollywood in person. She approached one poor
soul who stood there, mouth agape, and in dire danger of
drooling. I realised belatedly, that the 'poor soul' was
me!
"Good evening, Mister Collins. I believe that we have an
evening of entertainment ahead of us."
I was so out of my depth. I was floundering. To my eternal
gratitude, she turned the glamour down to the point where
my brain could function again, albeit only slightly.
"Snooker, Mister Collins. Snooker. We have a table for
seven, do we not?"
At that moment, I could not have cared in the slightest
concerning what fate awaited me. I didn't care at all.
There was a second angel in the room, and I was in
Paradise! Penelope turned the wattage down to her normal
Miss Pillan.
"Mister Collins! If we expect to win tonight, then I expect
you to think!"
An icicle thrust through the skull must have a similar
effect on the brain process. I slammed back to
reality.
"Much better, Mister Collins."
The warmth returned to her smile, and the ice vanished. My
mouth eventually got the message, and attempted
speech.
"Eh... Good Evening err ... Miss Pillan"
Great welcoming speech. Well, perhaps not!
"I see that you are dressed for the occasion, Mister
Collins. Very smart. I was unsure myself ..."
(I did not believe that for one, tiny moment!)
" ... but I thought this might be suitable."
She twirled. She actually twirled. Like a model on Dior's
Paris cat-walk, Miss Pillan turned to show off her outfit.
A flick of a wrist, and her half-length cloak spun off her
back and hung on her outstretched hand, a flicker of deep
yellow silk and black.
She had her hair pinned up at the back in a French Roll,
neat and yet so very fashionable. No stray hair would ever
intrude on her play. She wore a white silk blouse with long
sleeves, cuffed at the wrist, and a dark-brown velvet
waistcoat. It was buttoned close to the neck and held with
a dark string tie with a silver clasp. A matching skirt
flowed down to mid-calf, flaring out as she twirled.
Yet, no! It wasn't a skirt. Miss Pillan was wearing
culottes. I had never in my life, not in Methil anyway,
stood beside a woman wearing culottes. The outfit was
completed by pale-brown long boots, with a Cuban heel, and
topped by a wide-brimmed hat. For a moment, the Argentinian
Pampas had come to Methil. Though no Gaucho had ever looked
this good.
She caught my over-long glance at her trousers.
"Suitable for snooker, I think."
She also fingered the collar of her blouse.
"We don't want to distract the spectators with any
unfortunate displays. Snooker is a serious game, after
all."
From my viewpoint, Penelope Pillan could distract a blind
man AND his guide dog whenever she entered the room. The
small talk allowed me to regain some composure.
"You look delightful, Miss Pillan. The outfit is
perfect."
"Thank you. The compliment is appreciated."
For a moment, the ice showed above the smile.
"Let's go knock 'em dead!, Mister Collins."
I gestured towards the door.
"After you. Our table is waiting."
I held open the door, and Penelope Pillan made her exit.
Together, we left the security of the Lower Methil Annexe,
and turned to face our destiny - the Miner's Welfare
Institute. Miss Pillan paused for a moment, and, with the
ease of a conjurer, wrapped her cloak around her shoulders.
The overwhelming glamour of a few minutes ago, must have
been fading. I found myself studying her eyes - not for
romance, but to see what she was seeing.
"If you are looking around for the watchers, they are
there, in the shadows."
Her company had given me a boldness that I had never before
claimed in her presence. She give me a considered look,
then smiled.
"I was right, Mister Collins. You do think. And you do
think ahead. I presume that the students lurking around in
the shadows are part of your plan?"
I would have been inordinately pleased at the compliment,
had it not been for the obvious transparency of my thoughts
to this magician! I can only hope that my discomfort masked
my deeper thoughts.
"Don't worry, Mister Collins. I am not a mind reader
..."
Were my innermost secrets drawn in crayon on my forehead,
for the open inspection of the world?
"... just very good at unravelling mysteries."
I forced my thoughts into some rational form of order. This
woman positively encouraged rational thought. Even demanded
it. And would have no mercy on turbid thinking.
"Some of the students have decided to hang around in the
neighbourhood, in the hope that there might be a little
excitement tonight. Nothing official, of course, but I did
suggest that the might keep an eye open on the possibility
that a certain Malcolm McLaren might try to enter the
Miner's Welfare Institute."
Miss Pillan's eyes darkened for an instant. I think that
she was looking at me but seeing Emily Brunton.
"And if Mister McLaren should turn up?"
"Then they will persuade him to choose another road. Then
another. Until Malky McLaren feels that the whole world is
driving him. Like a hunted animal - no rest, no
security."
Miss Pillan looked, unblinking, directly into my
eyes.
"Then retribution, Mister Collins? I do not care for mob
rule."
It was my turn to bring on the cold smile.
"No violence, Miss Pillan. None at all. All they will do is
force Malky McLaren to seek refuge in the one place left
open to him. The one place that someone who has any
ambition in the ranks of the local criminal fraternity,
must never go."
Miss Pillan was not a local. It took her a moment to form a
map of the locality in her mind. But only a moment, mind
you.
"The students are calling this 'Operation Rawhide'. After
the TV programme. Herding cows and such. If they get the
timing right, then we should have the dubious honour of
Malcolm McLaren's presence, just as we are finishing the
match. I'm sure that he will bring a friend or two."
The echo of Penelope Pillan's laughter filled the evening
street.
"Mister Collins! I knew that you could think, but I must
confess that I have slighted you. You can think - and
wickedly too! The final act arranged before the play
commences. I do like it!"
"Then, Miss Pillan, it is time we raised the curtain."
As we approached the door of the Miner's Welfare Institute,
she touched my arm.
"As we are in this plot together, then we should not
stumble over formalities. Please call me 'Penny'."
I nearly choked. It had been a trial, just to refer to her
as 'Miss Pillan'. How could I possibly use the name
'Penny'. I could never use the derogatory form of her name
that was currency in the College. She determined my
thoughts, and disarmed them with a smile.
"'Penny', I said, Mister Collins. Not 'Penny Lope'. I would
have to kill you in the street, in front of all these
lurking witnesses ..."
She gestured to the audience out there in the dark. She
lowered her voice, just for my ears.
"... though it does amuse me. I never liked being
'Penelope'. Too musty and dull."
"Then ... Penny ..."
My bravado faltered. I was straying way beyond my circle of
light.
" ... if you are Penny, that would make me Neil. My friends
call me Neil. Or am I being presumptuous?"
"Not in the slightest. After all, tomorrow, we can always
return to normality."
She paused for a moment's recollection. Though not of me. I
was certain of that.
"But tonight, Neil, we can play."
I knew not what lay ahead, in the gloom of the Snooker Hall
...
... but it would be glorious!
As we climbed the marble stairs leading to the Snooker
Hall, I brought Miss Pillan ... No! I brought Penny up to
date on the other members of the McLaren clan. She already
knew what was in store for Malcolm McLaren - his fate would
be his own creation. When I outlined the predicament of Wee
Jeck McLaren, his cousin, it could have been the light from
the staircase window or my imagination, but I will always
be convinced that she blushed. Improbable as it might
seem.
"And what about the uncle? Is he here tonight?"
Penny was, I am sure, well read in the history of the
McLarens. Malky McLaren had featured prominently, and
frequently, in the reports sent from the Lower Methil
Annexe to the Principal in Kirkcaldy.
"Oh, he'll be here, all right! Somebody has been disrupting
the anti-social order in the Miner's Welfare Institute -
and he's the likeliest, in fact, the only candidate."
"I believe that he runs the local scrap yard. All things
negotiable, or disposable. And no book-keeping."
Penny knew a lot about the 'official' villainy of the
McLarens, but I knew the grubbier bits.
"You probably think that the Institute is the watering hole
for the Lower Methil lower orders. And you'd be right. All
the local bosses come here to play snooker. It's neutral
ground - only the caretaker runs the place - and they like
it that way. No fuss, no trouble, they all follow the
rules.
It's clean. No drink. No drugs. No trouble. And no Police -
bad for business!"
Penny stopped me at that.
"Neil! I find that difficult to believe. With the kind of
people who hang around here, then all manner of nastiness
must be pervading the place."
"Penny. I'm one of the people who 'hang' around the Snooker
Hall."
I said the words casually, but they cut as deeply as a
razor. Hurt me. Hurt Penny even more. I tried to apologise,
but she cut me off.
"No. If I trust you, then I should listen to what you say.
The apology is mine."
She urged me to continue.
"We all do business here. And the tables are honest. But
someone is trying to change everything to their advantage.
Become the top man. And change the rules to suit. That
brings us to Jeck McLaren. What I hear about him isn't nice
at all. He wants a respectable front, where he can deal out
the dirt. Lots of 'customers', fresh out of school. The
other hard men won't like it much, but if he can pull it
off, then they'll give him his place."
"Oh my God!"
Penny looked appalled.
"Surely the other 'hard men' as you call them, would never
allow that!"
"Penny. In here, there are only winners. No losers. None.
Not ever. If Jeck McLaren wins, then he'll have the means
to dictate the rules. And the only people who are standing
in his way are the College. Or more precisely, me. Emily
and Rabbie were the challenge. Tonight's game of snooker
will be the main bout. If I lose, and I don't just mean the
snooker, then I'm out. Gone. And Jeck McLaren takes the
prize."
My lecture in Methil Power Politics did not quite get the
reception I anticipated. Penny was furious. At me!
"Neil Collins! How dare you! I have never heard such
selfish nonsense."
I had experienced the force of Miss Pillan's personality on
more than one occasion, but the wrath of Penny Pillan could
flay the skin off a rhinoceros.
"Where do you stand with this 'me' nonsense!"
She mellowed down to mere anger.
"If you thought for a moment, you would realise that the
insufferable Jeck McLaren is up against us. You AND me.
That's a pretty tough combination. Throw in your Fisher
Street Irregulars, and he hasn't got a chance!"
As pep talks go - on that day, there had been many - that
was, far and away, the most effective. Penelope Pillan knew
where to punch. There was only one answer I could
give.
"Penny. You're right. Us. Not just me."
From the heart.
"I'm starting to like you, Mister Collins ..."
Now she looked abashed.
" ... Neil. You know how to start a war. Now let us finish
this one together!"
The Duke of Wellington almost had it right. She scared me
... but she would terrify the enemy!
"One question before we enter the hall, Penny. You can
actually play snooker, can't you?"
I pushed open the Snooker Hall door before she had a chance
to answer. I never knew that women could snort like that.
Before me was undoubtedly less dangerous than what lay
behind.
On appearance, the Snooker Hall was unchanged from every
other time that I had played a game or two. Two tables to
the right, two to the left. Four rectangles of green baize,
lit by the rectangular lampshades above each table. The
only other light came from the small, brass-shaded lamps on
the wall adjacent to each table, the minimum required to
make the scoreboard visible.
And one more light. The 'Exit' sign above the door that
swung closed, behind us. Leave ... or play the game!
Through the blue haze that hung around the hall, I could
see three games in progress. Penny scanned the room
carefully, but said nothing. This was my familiar
territory. She waited for me to fill in the detail.
On our left, at the nearest table, Jeck McLaren paused to
line up his next shot. He looked straight at Penny and
myself. I deliberately turned my back on him, and gestured
to the far table on the right.
"That's Harry Boden. Runs the local taxi operation. Very
much an up-and-coming businessman is Harry. Reckons that
mini-cabs are going to be big thing of the future."
I nodded in Harry's direction. Harry saluted with his cue,
but his face remained expressionless. I put him down as
'neutral'.
"Myself, I'd rather walk, but on a Saturday night with a
few pints inside, I can see the attraction."
I waited until the player at the near table on the left had
completed potting a particularly difficult red, leaving a
nice blue lined up for the corner pocket.
"This charming character is Massimmo Marietti. His friends
call him 'MaMa'. His enemies call him other names. Nothing
nice."
"Does he have many enemies?"
I looked at Penny. There was something very different in
her manner. She was bright, bubbly, and glowing with an
excited innocence.
"Not for very long. They tend to look for work in another
area. Any other area."
Massimmo handed his cue to his playing partner, and came
across to stand in front of Penny. He turned on his 100
watt smile. Penny returned with 120 watts. Massimmo spoke
to Penny, but the words were spoken for my benefit. It was
OK to chat up a woman - Massimmo never missed an
opportunity - but there could nothing overtly said in my
favour. Not tonight. Not in the Snooker Hall. Not in front
of all the other 'hard men'.
"Mister Collins! You surprise me. I had never thought that
you knew such a beautiful woman."
The smile increased to 150 watts. Penny matched it, and
raised it to 160.
"Miss Pillan, I have heard so much about you ..."
"Oh shit!" I thought. Was Penny's bubbly, but slightly dim,
act going to die before it had barely started?
" ... I have a grand-daughter at the Main College in
Kirkcaldy. She has mentioned you on several
occasions."
"Of course, I know her, MaMa ..."
She had never met Massimmo Marietti in her life, and
already she was calling him MaMa!
" ... She had a little trouble in the spring term, and I
was able to help her out. We always look after our
students. They are a family, in a way."
"As do we, my dear." Massimmo reached out and took Penny by
the hand. I pretended that I was a little jealous. In fact,
I was a lot jealous, but my smile never wavered. Just ached
a little.
"I must tell you, My dear Penelope, that these are
dangerous times. As a woman, you may not understand these
things ..."
Massimmo never noticed Penny's high-wattage smile flicker
for a moment, but I did.
"... but if things go badly tonight, then our Mister
Collins here, may face difficult times."
A shrug of the shoulders, and an expression of sincere
sympathy, combined to show that, if I was forced to exit
the hall with a lynch mob in close pursuit, he would,
reluctantly, be compelled to stand by the voice of the
majority.
Penny drew a little closer to Massimmo, and the smile
flared up into the harsh, actinic glare of an
arc-lamp.
"MaMa. Whatever happens tonight, I will always look out for
my students. That will never change."
Massimmo let Penny's hand drop, and stepped back smartly,
before his eyebrows were blow-torched into powder. I never
considered MaMa to be a fool, and he was rapidly
re-estimating his opinion of 'bubbly but dim' Miss Pillan.
For the first time during the conversation, he looked
directly at me.
"With such a delightful, and intelligent, companion, I hope
that you have an enjoyable evening."
He turned back to Penny, and with an almost imperceptible
bow, spoke his goodbye.
"With one so constant, how could the House of Massimmo do
any less?"
I never knew that it was possible to have every muscle and tendon in the human body, wound up to breaking point. I started breathing again. Tried to look calm, confident. Almost succeeded. Massimmo Marietti would not go against the majority, but if events were in the balance, he would stand on our side.
As we walked towards our table, every eye in the place followed us. Harry Boden, with cold curiosity, Massimmo Marietti with his operatic smile and a growing interest. And though we never looked in his direction, Jeck McLaren, with a little hate, a growing greed, and what I hoped was the first, faint glimmer of doubt and confusion. He must have wondered where Wee Jeck and Malky were. If anyone in the Snooker Hall knew, they wouldn't be telling. Sometimes, the unspoken rules work in your favour.
Penny tipped her head towards me.
"What a charming man MaMa is ..."
Bright and bubbly.
" ... for a crocodile!"
Much softer, with a tinge of amusement.
"You had me worried there, for a moment, with your
'inexperienced-college-graduate-meets-the-real-world'
performance. MaMa is smarter than he looks."
Penny chuckled. Not what I would have expected from her -
but so appealing.
"I am sure that MaMa is very fond of intelligent women, as
long as they are not quite as intelligent as he is. I would
never disappoint him."
Now both of us were smiling.
"I know that he runs an ice-cream business, but surely
there is more to him than a few cones and the odd
99."
It was vital that Penny knew exactly what she was dealing
with, so I gave her the 'Massimmo Marietti Story'
(condensed version).
"MaMa started out in Glasgow with an ice-cream van, and an
ambition. He wanted to grow the business. Run a fleet of
vans. Unfortunately, he fell foul of other powers in the
ice-cream world, and after a spate of mutually destructive
spontaneous-combustion events, he decided to move to the
East Coast and try his luck here. Rather than arrange for
the vans of his ice-cream vending rivals to 'mysteriously'
catch fire, MaMa settled on a much simpler technique. He
would invite those rivals to a 'Meet the Boss' snooker
match - the 'Boss' being Massimmo Marietti, of course - and
join a sort of ice-cream collective. No smoking vans, and
no Police involvement. A far smarter approach. If the rival
won the best of seven frames of snooker, then MaMa would
cheerfully leave his rival to a free and independent
existence."
"Just how many of his rivals actually won against
Massimmo?" Penny asked the obvious question.
"Only one. And his van caught fire on the way home from the
Snooker Hall. Very persuasive, that!"
"And you actually come here to relax, and play a little
snooker? Neil, I am impressed."
I tried not to let the compliment go to my head, but Penny
was an expert, and what's wrong with a little flattery?
I waited till Penny had removed her hat and cloak, then
hung them up, along with my jacket, on the wall hooks
beside our table. They were perfectly safe. All the best
thieves in the neighbourhood were either playing, or
watching, snooker tonight, in the Miner's Welfare
Institute. Penny looked every bit, the professional snooker
player. The waistcoat, in particular, was being noted on
more than a few sartorial shopping lists. On Penny, it
looked good. A touch of class.
While we chatted, and I helped Penny select a good cue -
the tables might be excellent, but the cues were dreadful -
we both studied the lurkers in the shadows. At Jeck
McLaren's table, there were a couple of middle-weight
henchmen, and Jeck's playing partner, one of his collection
drivers. The two thugs were only a problem if we had to
make a break for the door, and the Rules would prevent Jeck
and partner from interfering with our game. The big problem
would be the two heavies sitting beside the wall, one on
each side of our score-board.
Obvious McLaren plants - they would have to go!
I pulled all the balls from the pockets, and began to set up the table. It gave me time to consider the problem. As I placed the reds in the triangle, I had the beginnings of an idea. Penny had found the cube of blue chalk that the previous players had helpfully left behind, and applied it expertly to the tip of her cue. Yes, she had played snooker before. She also weighed the cue in her hand, checking the balance. Cues provided by the Snooker Hall had been known to lose the weight at the end, due to mishandling.
I am not, and never will be, the world's greatest snooker
player, but I do know that players very rarely score from
the opening break. I invited Penny to play first. Not
gentlemanly, I know - but this is snooker. You play to
win.
As Penny carefully wiped any dirt or chalk from the cue
ball, preparatory to placing the ball for the first shot, I
stood back from the table, and lit my first cigarette of
the evening. It helped me to relax, and for what I was
going to do, I needed that cigarette.
Off at the end wall, I could see Bob Redman, our referee
for tonight, watching the proceedings. Everything by the
Rules. I intended to play the Rules. Playing snooker would
only be part of the entertainment.
Penny played off with the first ball of the match. Off the
side, then back cushion, to finally kiss the reds. Nothing
scored, but nothing available for me to score. This wasn't
going to be a quick match, but then, who was in a
rush?
I moved around to the top of the table, and sized up the
shot. As I surmised - no obvious scoring possibilities. A
quick puff on the cigarette, which was then tossed onto the
brown linoleum floor. I gave the cue ball a smart tap, with
a measure of side. The ball barely touched the corner red,
hit the cushion, and the side made it angle down towards
the baulk cushion. It bounced off the cushion, and came to
rest behind the green. As neat a snooker as you could ask
for. I only wish that it had been the shot I intended. Take
it where you can find it!
I picked up the cigarette for a congratulatory puff, and
smugly left Penny to find a way around the snooker. Which
she did! One leg on the side cushion, one foot on the floor
in the approved fashion - those culottes were earning their
keep - Penny faced towards the baulk. A swift click, and
the unmistakable purr of top. The cue ball hit the bottom
cushion, then the side, missed every colour on the way up,
hit the top cushion and rolled to a stop right up against
the unbroken triangle of reds. As before - nothing to
play.
Normally, a knowing crowd of snooker watchers would have
nodded sagely at such a fine shot. But not tonight.
Everybody was watching Penny, and as nice a pair of legs as
ever graced a Snooker Hall. I'm a man! Of course I was
watching too!
I took another puff of the cigarette, as I contemplated my
choices. Try for the same shot as before - up to the baulk
- or do the amateur thing, and try to smash the tightly
packed reds, and leave an opening. I was lucky the last
time. Would I be lucky again?
As it turned out, the cue ball was touching the red, and I
would have to play away from the red. Look it up - it's
there in the rule book. Down went the cigarette, and out
came the rest from the end of the table.
It was an awkward shot, and I had to use the rest to give
myself height, and angle. No fancy spin, this time. I
struck towards the top cushion, and the cue ball bounced
the once, then rolled down to lie in the shadow of the
baulk cushion. No snooker, but not an easy shot to play. I
bent down to pick up the glowing cigarette, then moved
around the table on the wall side, as Penny manoeuvred her
way between our table, and the one where Jeck was playing.
As I suspected, everyone watched Penny. I could probably
play the best game of my life, tonight, and no-one would
ever notice.
I positioned myself next to the, as yet, unused scoreboard,
and waited patiently while Penny lined up her next shot.
Playing a ball next to the cushion can be difficult. I was
not making it easy for Penny. I had plenty of time to puff
away on my cigarette, as she carefully worked out the
angles, and the shot. I was similarly involved in
calculating the angles for my shot.
Penny bent over the cushion, intending to play to the side
cushion, and reach the pack of reds with a little side on
the cue ball. Sadly, I was the only man in the hall who was
not appreciating the view of a tightly clad derriere. I was
intent on stoking the glowing tip of the cigarette to a
brilliant orange. Penny played her shot, and I played
mine.
The cue ball flicked off the cushion, and spun up the
table, clipping a couple of reds off the pack. I, with a
quick pinch of my fingers, pulled the hot coal from my
cigarette - and dropped it neatly down the open front of
the shirt worn by Jeck's wing-man.
Any appreciation of Penny's fine snooker shot was, I'm
afraid to say, completely overwhelmed by what happened
next. In an eruption of waving arms, red screaming face,
and a frantic repetition of a very limited range of foul
language, Jeck's henchman launched himself into the pool of
light surrounding the table. Beating his chest and
yodelling like Methil's answer to Johnny Weissmuller, he
captured the attention of the entire hall. Nobody noticed
the red ball drop into the corner pocket. Penny had opened
the scoring.
Bob Redman moved swiftly, up to the commotion, like a
Hollywood SWAT Team commando. No warning was given, no
explanation required. For such a blatant interruption of
the game, there was only one answer. With an irresistible
'come-along' grip, Bob had the culprit out the door, and on
his way to oblivion. Never to play any part in the Miner's
Welfare Institute. Utter confusion reigned at the McLaren
table.
Nobody knew it at the time, but I had opened the scoring
too!
When the tumult subsided, I pointed to the corner pocket, and invited Penny to play her first colour. I would explain everything later. I re-lit my cigarette, and watched with satisfaction, as the game re-started. Penny potted the pink without hesitation.
As the second heavy scurried back to the McLaren fold for
explanations, and updates to orders, Penny and I settled
down to play snooker. Penny sank another red, a black, a
third red, then was unlucky not to pot a blue, by the
slimmest of margins. I slid the brass marker on the
scoreboard. 16 up for Penny, and I had yet to pot a ball.
Time to concentrate on the game!
As I stood there, chalking the tip of my cue while I
studied the table, Penny appeared silently at my side. For
a woman who could draw every eye in the place if she
wanted, she also had the natural predator's ability to use
cover, blend with the background, and close with the
prey.
"We're hunting McLarens tonight Neil ..."
A soft whisper. She could be a most unsettling person. I
took a moment to remind myself of that fact.
" ... and having a little fun!"
That chuckle again.
"I presume that it was you who set off Tarzan of the Apes.
That was quite a performance."
The humour in her voice had little effect, this time.
"Enjoy it while you can. It is going to get rougher."
I knew that Jeck would soon find out exactly what happened,
and try to come back at us with both barrels. I knew that I
had to keep him off balance, make anger rule his head. Lead
him unthinking, towards his downfall. But I started to
worry about Penny. If provocations went too far, and Jeck
dared to disregard the rules, then she could get hurt.
Badly.
I potted my first red, more luck than skill, and was lining
up to attempt the brown, when the advance guard of the
Annexe Cavalry arrived.
Jimmy Baxter, in what looked like a scruffy coat hired from
our janitor, and a tweed hat with a trout fly stuck in it,
attempted - and failed miserably - to 'sidle' into the
Snooker Hall. Collar turned up, and about as anonymous as a
Macaw in a Convent, Jimmy slid into the seat formerly
occupied by the incendiary Ape.
"Evening, Penelope, Neil. Said I would drop in to
watch."
Jimmy must have been receiving lessons in 'Stage
Whispering' from Too Hot Hutcheson.
"Unofficially, of course. Nowt to do with the
College."
A muffled squeak at my side made me turn from staring at
Jimmy, to look at Penny. Her eyes were bulging slightly,
and the expression on her face flitted from glee to
imminent seizure. There were tears running down her face. I
would have been concerned had I not presented a similar
scene to our audience. Torn between the tension, and Jimmy
Baxter's mad impersonation of Harry Lime, there was only
one way to turn.
Penny and I burst into spontaneous laughter. The puzzled
look on Jimmy's face only made it worse. For the next
minute, all we could do was cling to each other for
support. Laughing, shaking weeping.
As the catharsis wound down, I suddenly realised that there
was another party present. Someone who had walked right up
to us while we were helpless in our laughter. Bob Redman -
the Caretaker.
"This is a Snooker Hall, Mister Collins. Not a comedy
theatre. We try to play snooker with a little decorum. Take
care that you do not incur a warning."
Bob then strolled away, back to his position in the gloom,
at the back of the hall. He was smiling too. Even in the
dark, even with his face turned away, I was sure of it.
Penny dabbed away her tears with a handkerchief. I made do
with the back of my hand. I played that brown as if it was
on rails. Red, black, red, black, red and then a blue. They
went in quick succession. Another red, then a safety shot
to place the cue ball behind the green for a snooker.
Penny racked up 28 on the brass marker at my name, and I
did a victory stroll around the table, riffling the
tassells on the lamp-shade with my cue. 'High Noon' was
almost on us, and Glen-Gary Cooper was ready for the
duel.
"Jeck McLaren, we're standin here in the street, waitin. If
yer big enough!"
Naturally, I ran those lines through my head, for my own
personal screening. No sense in acting like a complete
fool. It disheartens your supporters, and aids the
opposition if you say daft things out loud. The release of
laughter is a wondrous panacea. It relaxes the mind and
eases the inhibitions. A little internal fantasy does no
harm. I gives you courage when you need it.
Jimmy Baxter contented himself with watching my break, then
silently applauded my total. If he enjoyed watching me
play, I could imagine his reaction when Penny took to the
table. I was not disappointed (and I was absolutely certain
that neither was Jimmy) when Penny played her way out of
the snooker, tipped a single red out of its position,
bounced off the top cushion, and left me snookered behind
the black!
"Where on Earth did you learn to play snooker?"
I might be ahead at that moment, but Penny was by far, the
superior player.
"Hanoi."
"Hanoi? As in North Vietnam?"
"No. Hanoi, as in French Indochina."
I knew the difference. I didn't just read Science Fiction.
I read a lot of modern history. So much human effort goes
into the Art of War. I read all I could about those
military artists. This was in the middle of the Cold War -
at the time, we had no idea when the end would be - and I
firmly believed in the saying ...
'In order to preserve the Peace, study War'
"What were you doing in Indochina?" There was time enough.
I was curious.
"I travelled there with my boyfriend. I was very daring,
then."
Penny was a few years older than me. Well, more than a few.
But in the gloom outside the table lamps, I was listening
to a young girl.
"He was a freelance journalist. Did articles for various
French newspapers and magazines. Very handsome, so
'Continental'. I thought that I was madly in love with him.
I followed him on his travels throughout the country.
Anywhere for a story. And learnt to play snooker against
with some of the most charming rogues in Asia."
Wherever Penny was at this moment, it was not Methil. I
listened, fascinated, to her story. Jimmy probably could
hear her, but said nothing, lest he break the spell. And
the entire Snooker Hall fell into a hush. Unable to hear,
but unwilling to disturb the unheard story.
"I thought that he might propose to me, but for Albert, it
was the story. Always the story.
She spoke his name as 'Alberr' - the French way. No 't'.
Made it sound so romantic. Say 'Albert' in English, and you
think of Stanley Holloway, old men in the East End of
London and Manchester pigeon fanciers. Say it in French,
and the heart sings!
"I woke up one morning, and he was gone. Just a note. He
had heard that the French High Command were planning
something big at a place called Dien Bien Phu. Albert was
Albert, and he could charm the wings off an Angel."
The quiet voice of a young girl travelled half-way round
the world to reach me in Methil. I wanted to reach out and
draw her safely home, before she could utter the dread
words that I knew would follow.
"He talked his way on to one of the follow-on flights to
the valley. No official record, so his name will never
appear on any list of the action. He never came back, and I
never had a chance to wish him well."
I passed my cue to Jimmy, who took it without a murmur. I
reached out and gathered Penny towards me. Unresisting, she
lay her head against my shoulder, and we stood there.
Laughter had made me a little more daring, a little crazy.
In Penny, it had turned the key in a lock, long
rusted.
Time passed. And then she turned her face towards me, the
tears plain and the eyes dark.
"You remind me a little of Albert, Neil."
Then the tears were gone, and Penny was back in the Miner's
Welfare Institute.
"I think, perhaps, that we still have a game to play."
The enchantment was gone. Not lost, but somewhere out of
reach.
In Indochina.
In any campaign, plan for everything you can think of.
Allow for the unexpected. Accept change - be flexible. But
never forget the objective.
I believe that, on the night in the Snooker Hall, I had
followed the first three precepts of a successful campaign.
I just needed reminding about the original objective. Penny
must have seen the confusion in my eyes.
"Neil. Remember, we're playing for Emily, for Rabbie. And
the Annexe."
I struggled with my thoughts, fought to regain focus.
Reluctantly, let other thoughts fade. I tried to portray
'lighthearted'.
"Well ... as battle cries go, it's hardly up there with
'Remember the Alamo', but as this is the only war we have
... it'll do!"
I also tried for confidence in my smile, and Penny accepted
that at face value.
While we were lost between two battlefields, Jeck McLaren
had taken the lead in the next action. One of his thugs had
been sent outside, on a fact-finding mission, and was now
reporting back to his master. The background hubbub was
back to its former level, and though I could not hear what
was going on in Jeck's corner, I didn't need Penny's
mind-reading talents to find out. Jeck was radiating fury,
and hissing out orders to his crew.
Both thugs were back on door-duty, and the heavy that had
ill-graced our table, was sent back to linger near our
table. I didn't like it much, but there was nothing in the
rules to stop it. It would take more than a cigarette, this
time.
I checked my watch, and glanced at the door. The clock was
ticking. Jeck McLaren must have caught the look - he leered
across at Penny and myself. Whatever he had planned, no
part of it included permitting our escape. I sincerely
hoped that Jeck had failed to follow the precepts for a
successful campaign.
Penny and I exchanged looks. With my back to Jeck and his
heavy, I mouthed the words "Ten minutes". Penny nodded.
Then we went back to the game.
Every red ball on the table was within easy reach. And
several would have been pottable - if I hadn't been for
that miserable black that Penny had laid in my path. I
pulled out the rest, again, and determuned to try a bounce
off the top cushion, and into a red. I had no chance of
potting a red, but I hoped that I wouldn't leave an easy
shot for Penny.
I carefully chalked my cue, calculated the angles, sighted
along the rest, and played the shot.
Up the table. Down the table. Missed every ball there was.
And neatly dropped the cue ball into a convenient pocket at
the bottom of the table. Foul stroke. 4 to Penny.
I could see Jimmy Baxter sadly shaking his head. Penny was
a good enough player, without handing her a gift. Penny,
being Penny, saw ample reason to reward folly. She placed
the cue ball in the D, adjusted it's position till she was
satisfied, then sent it on its way.
Red in the corner pocket, and perfectly placed for the
black. The black was in the same pocket, then back on its
spot like some conjurer's rabbit. Another red in the other
corner pocket, with bottom to bring the cue ball back into
line. Tap. Click. Another black. Now she was ahead. She
never slowed her pace.
A quick red, followed by a third black. And lined up for
red number four. Down it went, like whiskey in a Western
Saloon. Due to the spot being unavailable - a red was
covering it - Penny had to play pink again. Only six
instead of seven! At least, it wouldn't be a total
whitewash.
Penny moved to the bottom of the table to play a long red
into the middle pocket, leaving her perfectly placed
(again!) for another black. As she passed McLaren's heavy,
she stumbled for a moment. I could see the brute face make
an insolent apology, open hands raised in a shrug. I
started to move around the table, but Penny sent me a quick
flick of the eye, to say 'No!'. This was Jeck's master plan
- he would attempt to provoke me by attacking my weaker
flank. His heavy would harass Penny until I was forced to
move to her rescue. I almost felt sorry for his lieutenant.
He would be better served attacking the guns at
Balaclava.
As I wondered what the 'weaker sex' would do to her
opponent, I also pondered on more mischief for Jeck.
Penny comfortably potted another black, running the cue
ball back down to the baulk. I puzzled this for a moment -
I would have thought that she would have been better placed
for the next red if she had kept her cue ball up nearer the
top of the table. All she had achieved, was to place
herself within contact range of Jeck's point man. Ah
...
With Penny stretching across the table, I could see Jeck
making encouraging signals to his man. The trap was set.
The only point to settle was 'who's trap?'.
As my magical assistant, Miss Pillan, drew the attention of the audience with a marvellous play of misdirection, I, with absolutely nothing up my sleeve, moved swiftly over to Jeck's table. A swift pass of the hand, and the blue ball vanished from his table, and was slipped into the nearest pocket. The quickness of the hand (and Penny's shapely leg) deceives the eye! A little back-up irritation for the future.
As Penny lined up her next red, out of the gloom, Jeck's
man made a lunge at Penny. Her cue moved instantly back,
then forward to play the shot. I could hear a dull thud,
just before the tap of the cue on the cue ball. The cue
ball hit the intended red, but failed, narrowly, to place
it in the corner pocket. As snooker shots go, it was an
indifferent play.
As a means to removing a nuisance, it was perfect. Jeck's
champion slumped back into the gloom. Apart from the small
mark on his forehead, you would have thought he was
sleeping. In my opinion, Penny had been too kind - I would
have struck much lower. But then, I lacked her subtlety in
these affairs of the head.
I racked up Penny's score to 57. A quick count of the
remaining balls told me that I was running out of options.
If I did not start potting soon, then I could not hope to
win. At snooker. And if 'Operation Rawhide' didn't bring
home the beef, then snooker would be the least of our
problems.
Over at Jeck's table, confusion returned. The heavy on our side of the room was failing to respond to Jeck's frantic signals. He was not having a good night. I sincerely hoped that it would get worse.
On the snooker front, I could see a faint possibility. If I
made a fine cut on the red, and nudge it in to the pocket,
I might be able to line up the blue. The odds were poor,
but against Penny and her snooker skills, I was never going
to win with a defencive strategy. I gave it my best, and
hoped for better.
The red was twitched from its position, and teetered on the
edge of the pocket. A swing of the hips, and a pushing
motion with the hands, finally persuaded it to drop. It had
always worked when playing pinball. Now, it seemed, it
could be made to work at snooker. I stopped holding my
breath, and checked to see where the cue ball had stopped.
Nicely lined up on the blue. Well! What do you know?
Penny allowed me one raised eyebrow. I would have said I
was 'jammy'. I took the black next - but failed to pot the
last red. At least, I hadn't left it hanging over the
pocket. Score now 36.
It made no difference. Penny finessed the last red off the
table, then knocked the blue with comparative ease. If she
could plant a difficult yellow, then I would need every
ball remaining on the table - and a snooker - to win. The
only force in my favour would be sheer luck, and my voodoo
pinball body action.
Penny took the shot. Everybody in the hall watched Penny. I
watched the yellow. A twist, a gesture, and the facial
expression of a constipated clown. It worked! The ball
stopped short. I was in with an improbable chance to win.
The yellow was easy. Penny had done most of the work. Same
for the green. And even I could pot the brown into the
corner pocket from that position.
The blue was trickier, but if I could take it, then the
pink was decidedly possible. I lit another cigarette, and
prowled around the table, checking angles. Making it look
as if I knew what I was doing.
Jimmy Baxter leaned forward, studying the table. Then, with
a shake of the tweed hat, decided on the negative. Penny
had done enough to win. Now she waited to see if I could do
enough to snatch victory in the closing game.
Finally, I had made my calculations. Angle, spin, the nap
of the cloth - forget it. Just hit the bloody ball!
The cigarette hit the floor in a shower of red sparks, and
I drove the cue ball into the blue. No science. No skill. I
would never be a great snooker player. But I had willpower,
and I talked that blue all around the table till it gave up
and rolled into the pocket.
Jimmy was astonished. Penny delighted. And the pink was
easy. A quick count, and I came to the same conclusion as
everyone else at the table. If I could sink that black,
then Penny and I would be equal on a score of 63. Now, that
would really be something!
I picked up my cigarette, and studied my final shot. And if
the blue had been tricky, then this black would be near
impossible. The cue ball was sitting down near the baulk
cushion, and the black was tucked up tight against the
centre of the top cushion. I needed a sign. some
inspiration.
Across the Snooker Hall, the door opened, and Richie
Walker, Too Hot Hutcheson, and Podge Cunningham walked in.
Richie made the gesture of cocking a pistol, aiming at Jeck
McLaren, and jerking his hand up with the recoil. Game
on!
I dropped my cigarette back on to the floor. I leaned over
the table, lined up my cue, and drove the cue ball up
towards the black with all the force I could muster. No
snooker professional would ever play such a ridiculous
shot, but then, I was not a very professional player. Not
even a gifted amateur. And I have played that same shot
several times in later life, and it always turns out the
same way.
The cue ball crashed into the black with the crack of a
bull-whip. The black flew down the table, and rattled hard
into the corner pocket on my right, before dropping in for
my seven points. The cue ball did the same with the corner
pocket on my left - with one exception. The sheer violence
of the impact was enough to eject the ball back out onto
the table.
Terrible snooker, but one hell of a shot!
This time, the applause was not silent. Unheard of! Actual applause in the Snooker Hall? I would probably get my first official warning from Bob Redman - behaviour tending to disrupt the play of others - but it would be worth it.
Score 63 - 63. A draw.
I know that we should have re-spotted the black, and played the decider, but I felt immensely satisfied with the draw, and reluctant to pursue the win. From the warmth of Penny's smile, it looked as if she felt the same. Jimmy Baxter congratulated us both, by raising his disreputable tweed hat in salute. The only part of the celebration that was missing, was a fireworks display ...
On cue (stage, not snooker), the fireworks commenced. Over
at Jeck McLaren's table, a heated argument broke out
between Jeck and his partner. Simmering frustration, and
the lack of support from his favourites - Malky and Wee
Jeck - had turned some minor event in their game into a
shouting match.
Penny and Jimmy turned to watch this new spectator sport.
As did everyone else in the Snooker hall.
Seeing my hopelessly smug grin, Penny sought an
explanation.
"Can I presume that you are, in some way, responsible for
the fandango across the way?"
I nodded assent. I couldn't turn my eyes away from Jeck
doing the tribal dance.
"And ... ?"
Penny demanded more than a nod. I explained about the
purloined blue.
"But that is cheating!"
"Only if you do it in the game that you are actually
playing."
I had an informal degree in Barrack-Room law.
Penny considered this dubious legal point for a moment,
then chuckled.
I was really getting to like that chuckle!
As Bob Redman moved in to quell the two-man riot, the door
burst open, and in barged Malky McLaren. If ever there was
a man with a story to tell that night, it was Malcolm
'Malky' McLaren. If 'Operation Rawhide' had worked, then I
would know in the next few seconds.
The door swung closed. A very, very long second passed, and
then swung open to reveal the uniformed figure of Sergeant
Donaldson. Senior sergeant from the local police station,
and a man who believed in 'practical policing'.
A stunned hush dropped down on to the Snooker Hall. Except
at the one table where Jeck McLaren was attempting to hoist
his partner by his shirt front. The partner was trying,
desperately, to persuade Jeck to let him go, by the,
unsuccessful, expedient of kicking Jeck in the shins.
Malky hesitated, his rhythm upset by the sight of Jeck and
partner apparently dancing, rather than playing snooker,
then turned in my direction, pointed with an outstretched
arm, and shouted as loudly as he could.
"It wis him, Mister Sergeant! He's the wan! He's oot tae
get me!"
That really brought the house down! Jeck stopped leading in
the Institute Fandango and let his partner crash to the
floor. He turned and stared, with horror, at Malky and the
accompanying constabulary. The silence around the hall
deepened into a raw-edged chasm.
Harry Boden stood with his cue at 'order arms', as if it
were a rifle.
MaMa smiled at Malky, as he would with a reluctant
ice-cream salesman.
The majority of the Snooker Hall residents faded back into
the gloom.
Of all the Rules of the Snooker Hall, only one had never
been broken.
Until that night.
Never bring the Police into it.
Sergeant Donaldson was, as I have said, was a 'practical
policeman'. He knew everybody in the hall. By official
record, reputation, or just plain recognition on sight. He
never troubled himself with the petty crimes he could never
prove anyway. Never concerned himself if one dubious
character happened to perform some free dentistry on
another.
Sergeant Donaldson concentrated on protecting the honest
people of Methil from those who would prey on them. He
looked after his patch, and the local underworld stayed on
theirs. Conveniently located in the Miner's Welfare
Institute Snooker Hall.
By unspoken accord, both sides had followed that rule for
years. Not so much a 'no-go' area for the law - more a
reservation for those who misunderstood terms such as
'ownership' or 'property'.
In his terror, Malky could only pour out further accusations.
"It's him! Him fae the Annexe. Jist 'cause ah gi'ed Emily a
kickin!"
Jeck tried desperately to shut Malky up, but Sergeant
Donaldson used a firmly planted police boot, to restrain
Jeck. He made no attempt to restrain Malky. A policeman
will always be interested in hearing a confession, freely
given, in front of witnesses.
"Ah didnae hurt Rabbie. Honest! It wis wee Jeck that nutted
him, and held him back."
Jeck made one, final, try to halt the flow, but Malky was
too far gone in his speech to notice Jeck's agonised
glare.
"It wis Jeck what made us dae it!"
The magnitude of his error was finally seeping into Malky's
tortured brain. He tried to clamber over Jeck's table to
reach me, scattering the balls in the process. Sergeant
Donaldson pulled him back, more to protect him from Jeck,
than conform to table rules.
"It's that effin' technician fae the Annexe. He planned all
this."
I should have bowed in acknowledgement - but I'm not
totally daft!
Malky subsided into tearful misery. His final words were as
much to himself as anyone else.
"He kicked me aff the bus, so he did."
Sergeant Donaldson beckoned me over.
"Mister Collins, I believe?"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Are you involved in any of this?"
"No, sergeant."
"Do you have any witnesses?"
MaMa stepped forward. Harry Boden stepped forward. Bob
Redman stepped forward. Practically everybody in the hall,
not related to the McLaren family, closed in behind
them.
"He's been here all night. Playing snooker. With a lady.
We'll testify to that."
Even the experienced Sergeant Donaldson was taken aback by
the statement. Not in the words - they were standard
Snooker Hall fare - but by the way they were spoken in
perfect chorus by everyone present.
"Very well. Then that concludes my business here tonight.
Time I was off."
As he turned to leave, Malky McLaren attempted to squirm
out of his grasp.
"No you don't, Mister McLaren. We need to have
words."
Jeck tried the one protest. Only the one.
"Don't you dare say anything!"
Sergeant Donaldson took Jeck firmly by the elbow.
"Interfering with the process of the law? I don't think so,
John McLaren. Shall we finish this down at the
station?"
Before the sergeant could usher them both out of the door,
Bob Redman stepped up to Jeck.
"Jeck McLaren. You're barred! You too, Malky!"
Then to the sergeant.
"Usual table at nine, George?"
When not in uniform, George Donaldson enjoyed his weekly
game with Bob. Practical Policing in action.
"Looking forward to it, Bob."
Penny and I held each other at arms length, just for a moment, then she pulled us together, and kissed me. Everybody cheered, but we never noticed.
And so, the McLaren Empire - torn apart by inner turmoil, and surrounded by its enemies - crumbled into dust. History alone would judge its failure.
We had won!
In the Snooker Hall, the events of the evening were
discussed, dissected, and re-told endlessly. Everyone had
an opinion. Everyone had his own version, from his own
viewpoint. As the night turned into legend, outgrowing its
humble cast, Penny and I said our 'Good Night' to Jimmy and
the Annexe students.
I slipped the cloak over Penny's shoulders, and waited till
she set her hat at a jaunty angle. I accompanied her down
the stone stairs to the main entrance, immeasurably
relieved that my skill in downstairs skiing had not been
necessary that night.
Together, we walked through the late of the evening, till
we arrived at Penny's car - a bright red MG B Roadster. I
held the door, as Penny removed her hat, then gracefully
slipped into the driver's seat.
"It has been a wonderful evening, Neil. I enjoyed it
immensely."
The confident woman of a moment before, slipped aside the
inner cloak she wore, and a younger, less forceful, Penny
spoke to me.
"Thank you Neil. For all that you have done for Emily and
Rabbie. That was truly wonderful. And for your company,
too. It has been so long since I have enjoyed myself so
much."
I was lost for words. Nothing seemed adequate. I had spent
an amazing evening, watching 'Miss Pillan' transform into
Penny. A magical evening with a fantastic woman. I did not
want to break the spell.
Penny did not press me for a response. Instead, she asked
the simplest question.
"Could I offer you a lift home, Neil?"
Blood surged into my face. My heart stuttered.
"Penny! People will talk!"
"People are already talking!"
That divine chuckle scattered my defences. I tried to rally
what little sense I had.
"It's been a long night. I need the cool night air to clear
my senses."
I could plan strategy, but Penny was, by far, the better
player.
"Neil Collins! In case you hadn't noticed. This is a
convertible!"
In the years since then, Penny was proved absolutely
correct. Everybody did talk! I could deny the events of
that evening. I could claim to have achieved anything and
everything. It made absolutely no difference. No-one ever
believed a single word I said.
Whatever Penny and I did, or didn't do - the legend long
outlived the fact. So write this story whichever way you
wish. And say what Penny said ...
"Adieu Albert, tout de bon."
[ Goodbye, Albert. I wish you well ]