Cue-Ball and the Pen
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was in bed fifteen minutes after the bells and could hear the new year loudly taking shape despite the double glazing. I'd left the girlfriend in the pub along with instructions not to make a noise whenever she decided to crawl home, my first New Year's Day shift in over twenty years being the reason for my early departure.
The recent flu epidemic was to blame, and no way around it for me since I'd already had my obligatory week off with it in mid-December. As it was, I fell for frost-watch, being obliged to start up all of the units in the sidings and let them idle for a couple of hours in order that they would be fit for service the following day. My train driving colleagues, those who weren't flu stricken, would appreciate that.
Strangely, I wasn't tired. I shoved my feet into my slippers and immediately, violently kicked the right one across the room, the same one Cue-Ball had been chewing at in the night. The shower calmed me down and five minutes later we stepped out into the frosty, foggy morning, Cue-Ball's favourite weather conditions since he was a pup. The hall clock said ten past five. Cue-Ball growled at a half dozen or so noisy revellers but they were at the top of the street, almost at the main road. We turned down towards the canal and I just about lost my footing on the bridge it was so slippery underfoot, but Cue-Ball didn't notice, having executed his usual disappearing trick with his nose to the ground.
There's no tow-path on the other side. Playing fields and reed beds and what's left of the crumbling canal wall but I would know my way blindfold having traversed it most days of Cue-Ball's young life. The breach in the wall had allowed a fair sized pond to establish itself over the years, hence the reeds.
The sound was eerie, but a sound I remembered somehow from my distant past. Cue-Ball came scurrying back to me, unusual for him, and walked to heel; again, unusual for him. It came to me, the sound; the sound of stones skittering across the frozen canal, almost musical but I could see where the dog would be nervous of it.
Drunken laughter accompanied the sound, and then a loud yelp which had me checking Cue-Ball to see if he'd been hit. He hadn't, but something had and it sounded like a braying donkey.
Peering into the hoar, I could just about make out the shape of the swan, one of a pair which wintered in the area. The stones kept singing but the swan didn't move, which I thought was very odd since it was obviously being targeted by the louts. Another stone struck it at speed and the throaty yelp came with a hiss this time.
I was a conductor/guard on the trains before I became a driver, and the only piece of equipment I held on to from that time was the whistle; but I couldn't tell you why, not until that moment. The whistle hung from my belt along with the various keys I needed for work and I immediately unclipped it.
The shrill, ear-splitting noise cracked the air like a ghostly banshee and all at once there was silence from the other side, followed almost instantly by loud gasps and a few drunken expletives, themselves followed by the hurried departure of several pairs of feet. A girlie sounding scream rent the quiet as one of the party apparently slipped in haste, but after that there was complete silence.
I soon discovered the reason for the Pen's inability to escape the barrage in that the pond was also frozen solid and she was well and truly trapped, unable or perhaps too exhausted to even flap her wings. I couldn't guess as to how long she had been there but I had an idea she wouldn't last much longer.
Cue-Ball didn't argue when I turned for home, the whistle having upset him as much as it had the miscreants. I tried calling the RSPB, the RSPCA and the vet Cue-Ball attended but got an answering machine each time. It was, after all, very early New Year's Day.
I drove to work, thinking to try them all again when I got there. I put the heater on in the office and picked up the phone before spotting the number for the Fire Brigade. Not the emergency 999 but the direct number for reporting a false alarm whenever some drunk pressed an alarm for a laugh
I knew the watch commander who picked up the phone at the first ring and, after wishing each other a Happy New Year, I told him the problem. I heard him call out to whatever men were on-shift with him and shortly after that he assured me they would see what they could do. Perhaps glad of some action to relieve the boredom.
A couple of hours later I was back in the office trying to get warm when the phone rang. The watch commander reported that the Pen was none the worse for wear but one of his officers had been hospitalised by the Cob as they tried to rescue his mate. Not only that, a group of youths had brought a friend, a girl, to the hospital some two hours earlier after she had been attacked and injured by that same Cob, which presumably was the scream I heard after blowing the whistle so to speak. I allowed myself a little smile at that.
I was done and dusted by ten, and driving homeward in the fog at quarter past.
The girlfriend had made it home and was curled up on the couch, still fully clothed and with the bowl from the sink close by. Cue-Ball was flat out on top of her but clambered off when I entered the room. I changed out of my uniform, turned the central heating down to a more reasonable temperature and set about making breakfast. Strangely, the girlfriend wasn't hungry so I pigged enough for two, the fact that I could hear her making use of the bowl doing nothing to deter me.
The fog still hadn't lifted when I took Cue-Ball out for another walk, this time armed with over half a loaf broken up small. The swans knew us and put up with Cue-Ball and his inquisitive nose since we were in the habit of feeding them from time to time. The Pen looked fine, although I could see a few broken feathers lying around the banking and thought they might well have been damaged during the assault, or the rescue, and the Cob appeared to be extra vigilant while digging in to his share of the bread.
Cue-Ball stuck close to me as we walked on down towards the next bridge, perhaps recalling the carry-on of earlier. At the Shepherd's Arms I gave him the option of crossing over the deathly quiet road and further on down the tow path, but he turned up towards home. He took an interest in something on the grass verge and I managed to coax it from him, finding it was a leather wallet containing the princely sum of thirty five pounds, two tens and three fives. Nothing else; no name or address, photographs or other means of identifying the owner. The notes were bone dry, suggesting the wallet hadn't been lying long. The possibility that it belonged, make that once belonged, to one of the louts who had found fun in pestering the Pen meant I wouldn't be going out of my way to trace the owner. I pocketed the cash and let Cue-Ball have the wallet back as a keepsake.
The girlfriend had made it upstairs to the bedroom, taking the bowl with her. I sent Cue-Ball off on the hunt for her and slipped silently out of the front door, my own New Year's celebrations about to begin, and with my newly acquired bonus already burning a hole in my pocket.
I played pool with Quasimodo, The Incredible Hulk, Barney Rubble and a good looking nurse I didn't know, all recently turfed out of a fancy dress party when the fighting began. A taxi came for the nurse just as the pub filled with bleary eyed regulars in search of a cure, the hair of the dog that bit them, and I was suddenly glad I'd only had the one glass of whisky at the bells before doing the rounds of kisses and handshakes and making my exit. They truly looked a sight, most of them as drunk again as they'd been after just a couple of curative drinks.
Manny Skinner came in with a face like thunder and, after asking one or two to buy him a drink, told his story to Terry, the landlord's wife. It seems Manny's son came home pleading poverty, claiming someone had dipped his pocket and had it away with his wallet which contained at least fifty pounds. I already had Manny's boy down as one of the canal bank culprits, most likely the ringleader and this more or less verified my suspicions. I didn't bother to correct Manny on the sum lost, and quietly called him a fool for bailing out his son to such an extent. A fool and his money and all that.
Enter the girlfriend with Cue-Ball in tow. Cue-Ball had his new wallet with him, which Manny recognised immediately. The question came as to how he came about it and Quasimodo suggested it could well have been a Christmas present, much to the absolute delight of those gathered. The girlfriend couldn't shed any light on the matter, having assured Manny that she couldn't remember seeing his arsehole of a son. When Manny asked that she take the wallet from Cue-Ball to check for cash, she invited him to go for it himself, Cue-Ball being somewhat notorious for being a bad tempered little shit at the best of times. Just to play fair, I tempted Cue-Ball with half a packet of cheese and onion crisps, his favourite, and showed Manny the empty wallet. I then confessed that Cue-Ball had found the wallet on the canal bank, and that a big swan had been chewing on what looked like scraps of paper, which in turn could have been banknotes.
Cue-Ball, a rough haired Jack Russell, does indeed have a bit of a temper. He permits me to feed him, to walk him and, rather against his will, to wash him whenever he rolls in something disgusting, which is often. He totally ignores me when there are females around, a real ladies man, he's on his best behaviour at such times. Finished with his snack of crisps, he immediately confronted Manny who had been inspecting what was left of the wallet. It belonged to Cue-Ball once more at the second, threatening growl.
Three o'clock was chucking out time and no one complained, although I could have settled in for a session, unlike most of the others who had made the effort. The girlfriend had nursed a coke for all the time she was there, and Cue-Ball managed to rip the wallet to shreds and was eyeing up Barney Rubble's sandals when we took our leave. He took the option on another walk and I suggested that the girlfriend could make a start on the dinner.
Both swans approached upon recognising us but lost interest when they realised there was nothing in the way of food for them. I'd read somewhere that a lot of bread was actually bad for them and had always been mindful not to overdo it.
The sun hadn't made it through all day for the fog and now night was closing in fast. It dawned on me that the only bird I'd heard was the Pen, and then only to complain about her treatment, and that made me sad.
A blanket and a duvet hid the girlfriend from sight. She stirred when Cue-Ball hopped up and buried himself in beside her. The house was like an oven and with no obvious sign of food having been prepared.
I decided I couldn't be bothered, stacking some sounds on the three CD changer and settling into my favourite armchair, but the nap didn't happen.
Cue-Ball let me know there was someone at the front door before I heard the knock, he's quick like that, although it's often the neighbours on either side having visitors, or even someone across the road.
The twins, Luce and Lenny, the girlfriend’s best mates since pre-school days. Cue-Ball never knows which of them to greet first and he's been known to piss himself with the excitement of seeing them. Luce, who lives away and only comes home for the holidays, is a self-confessed nymphomaniac and claims these breaks are rest periods. Lenny is a devout lesbian and spends so much time with us that she has her own wardrobe, which often sets tongues wagging as to what exactly our combined relationship is. Needless to say we don't ever pass comment, thus giving the tongues plenty of room to wag; we find it highly amusing.
Lenny dove straight under the quilt with the girlfriend and Luce plonked herself on my favourite armchair, closely followed by Cue-Ball. I made drinks and turned up the music a couple of notches, just enough to be heard above their chatter.
I still didn't feel like cooking, although everyone claimed to be hungry so I produced the menu for the Chinese takeaway and jotted down the order. Luce and Cue-Ball walked round with me, although Cue-Ball was hesitant until I told him where we were headed. He knows Kwong always throws a sausage in for him and he likes to show his face, to show his appreciation.
A night out had been half planned but by the time Lenny, Cue-Ball and I returned from our after dinner walk the other two were under the duvet after doing the washing up and preparing the spare room. The temperature had dropped to well below freezing again and that must have shown because no one seemed interested in venturing out.
I shaved some hash into the percolator and we scanned the television pages in search of some entertainment, but came up woefully short. When the hash kicked in I was studying the DVD shelf and my eyes latched on to the 'Diesel live in concert', my best Christmas present by a long way. I'd listened to the accompanying CD and had been saving the DVD for when I could watch it in peace. His tour band has his daughter, Lily, singing backing vocals and one song on her own, surely another star in the making. I have all the albums no matter which name he's trading under be it Johnny Diesel, Mark Lizotte or just plain Diesel so the girls know of him and were transfixed as we watched. Cue-Ball slept through most of it, but then he's a bit of a Philistine when it comes to music at the best of times; he didn't complain when Lenny asked me to play the whole thing again. We had more hash, in tea this time, and enjoyed the show all over again.
I woke at ten to find a twin either side of me. I'd heard the girlfriend getting up and taking Cue-Ball out and they must have thought it was me; there's no radiator in the spare room. She brought mugs of tea and we all slept in the same bed until gone twelve and, since I was first in and out of the shower, I was made responsible for getting the breakfast going.
The sun didn't show again but no one seemed bothered by that, all reckoning the new year got itself off to a half decent start for a change.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was in bed fifteen minutes after the bells and could hear the new year loudly taking shape despite the double glazing. I'd left the girlfriend in the pub along with instructions not to make a noise whenever she decided to crawl home, my first New Year's Day shift in over twenty years being the reason for my early departure.
The recent flu epidemic was to blame, and no way around it for me since I'd already had my obligatory week off with it in mid-December. As it was, I fell for frost-watch, being obliged to start up all of the units in the sidings and let them idle for a couple of hours in order that they would be fit for service the following day. My train driving colleagues, those who weren't flu stricken, would appreciate that.
Strangely, I wasn't tired. I shoved my feet into my slippers and immediately, violently kicked the right one across the room, the same one Cue-Ball had been chewing at in the night. The shower calmed me down and five minutes later we stepped out into the frosty, foggy morning, Cue-Ball's favourite weather conditions since he was a pup. The hall clock said ten past five. Cue-Ball growled at a half dozen or so noisy revellers but they were at the top of the street, almost at the main road. We turned down towards the canal and I just about lost my footing on the bridge it was so slippery underfoot, but Cue-Ball didn't notice, having executed his usual disappearing trick with his nose to the ground.
There's no tow-path on the other side. Playing fields and reed beds and what's left of the crumbling canal wall but I would know my way blindfold having traversed it most days of Cue-Ball's young life. The breach in the wall had allowed a fair sized pond to establish itself over the years, hence the reeds.
The sound was eerie, but a sound I remembered somehow from my distant past. Cue-Ball came scurrying back to me, unusual for him, and walked to heel; again, unusual for him. It came to me, the sound; the sound of stones skittering across the frozen canal, almost musical but I could see where the dog would be nervous of it.
Drunken laughter accompanied the sound, and then a loud yelp which had me checking Cue-Ball to see if he'd been hit. He hadn't, but something had and it sounded like a braying donkey.
Peering into the hoar, I could just about make out the shape of the swan, one of a pair which wintered in the area. The stones kept singing but the swan didn't move, which I thought was very odd since it was obviously being targeted by the louts. Another stone struck it at speed and the throaty yelp came with a hiss this time.
I was a conductor/guard on the trains before I became a driver, and the only piece of equipment I held on to from that time was the whistle; but I couldn't tell you why, not until that moment. The whistle hung from my belt along with the various keys I needed for work and I immediately unclipped it.
The shrill, ear-splitting noise cracked the air like a ghostly banshee and all at once there was silence from the other side, followed almost instantly by loud gasps and a few drunken expletives, themselves followed by the hurried departure of several pairs of feet. A girlie sounding scream rent the quiet as one of the party apparently slipped in haste, but after that there was complete silence.
I soon discovered the reason for the Pen's inability to escape the barrage in that the pond was also frozen solid and she was well and truly trapped, unable or perhaps too exhausted to even flap her wings. I couldn't guess as to how long she had been there but I had an idea she wouldn't last much longer.
Cue-Ball didn't argue when I turned for home, the whistle having upset him as much as it had the miscreants. I tried calling the RSPB, the RSPCA and the vet Cue-Ball attended but got an answering machine each time. It was, after all, very early New Year's Day.
I drove to work, thinking to try them all again when I got there. I put the heater on in the office and picked up the phone before spotting the number for the Fire Brigade. Not the emergency 999 but the direct number for reporting a false alarm whenever some drunk pressed an alarm for a laugh
I knew the watch commander who picked up the phone at the first ring and, after wishing each other a Happy New Year, I told him the problem. I heard him call out to whatever men were on-shift with him and shortly after that he assured me they would see what they could do. Perhaps glad of some action to relieve the boredom.
A couple of hours later I was back in the office trying to get warm when the phone rang. The watch commander reported that the Pen was none the worse for wear but one of his officers had been hospitalised by the Cob as they tried to rescue his mate. Not only that, a group of youths had brought a friend, a girl, to the hospital some two hours earlier after she had been attacked and injured by that same Cob, which presumably was the scream I heard after blowing the whistle so to speak. I allowed myself a little smile at that.
I was done and dusted by ten, and driving homeward in the fog at quarter past.
The girlfriend had made it home and was curled up on the couch, still fully clothed and with the bowl from the sink close by. Cue-Ball was flat out on top of her but clambered off when I entered the room. I changed out of my uniform, turned the central heating down to a more reasonable temperature and set about making breakfast. Strangely, the girlfriend wasn't hungry so I pigged enough for two, the fact that I could hear her making use of the bowl doing nothing to deter me.
The fog still hadn't lifted when I took Cue-Ball out for another walk, this time armed with over half a loaf broken up small. The swans knew us and put up with Cue-Ball and his inquisitive nose since we were in the habit of feeding them from time to time. The Pen looked fine, although I could see a few broken feathers lying around the banking and thought they might well have been damaged during the assault, or the rescue, and the Cob appeared to be extra vigilant while digging in to his share of the bread.
Cue-Ball stuck close to me as we walked on down towards the next bridge, perhaps recalling the carry-on of earlier. At the Shepherd's Arms I gave him the option of crossing over the deathly quiet road and further on down the tow path, but he turned up towards home. He took an interest in something on the grass verge and I managed to coax it from him, finding it was a leather wallet containing the princely sum of thirty five pounds, two tens and three fives. Nothing else; no name or address, photographs or other means of identifying the owner. The notes were bone dry, suggesting the wallet hadn't been lying long. The possibility that it belonged, make that once belonged, to one of the louts who had found fun in pestering the Pen meant I wouldn't be going out of my way to trace the owner. I pocketed the cash and let Cue-Ball have the wallet back as a keepsake.
The girlfriend had made it upstairs to the bedroom, taking the bowl with her. I sent Cue-Ball off on the hunt for her and slipped silently out of the front door, my own New Year's celebrations about to begin, and with my newly acquired bonus already burning a hole in my pocket.
I played pool with Quasimodo, The Incredible Hulk, Barney Rubble and a good looking nurse I didn't know, all recently turfed out of a fancy dress party when the fighting began. A taxi came for the nurse just as the pub filled with bleary eyed regulars in search of a cure, the hair of the dog that bit them, and I was suddenly glad I'd only had the one glass of whisky at the bells before doing the rounds of kisses and handshakes and making my exit. They truly looked a sight, most of them as drunk again as they'd been after just a couple of curative drinks.
Manny Skinner came in with a face like thunder and, after asking one or two to buy him a drink, told his story to Terry, the landlord's wife. It seems Manny's son came home pleading poverty, claiming someone had dipped his pocket and had it away with his wallet which contained at least fifty pounds. I already had Manny's boy down as one of the canal bank culprits, most likely the ringleader and this more or less verified my suspicions. I didn't bother to correct Manny on the sum lost, and quietly called him a fool for bailing out his son to such an extent. A fool and his money and all that.
Enter the girlfriend with Cue-Ball in tow. Cue-Ball had his new wallet with him, which Manny recognised immediately. The question came as to how he came about it and Quasimodo suggested it could well have been a Christmas present, much to the absolute delight of those gathered. The girlfriend couldn't shed any light on the matter, having assured Manny that she couldn't remember seeing his arsehole of a son. When Manny asked that she take the wallet from Cue-Ball to check for cash, she invited him to go for it himself, Cue-Ball being somewhat notorious for being a bad tempered little shit at the best of times. Just to play fair, I tempted Cue-Ball with half a packet of cheese and onion crisps, his favourite, and showed Manny the empty wallet. I then confessed that Cue-Ball had found the wallet on the canal bank, and that a big swan had been chewing on what looked like scraps of paper, which in turn could have been banknotes.
Cue-Ball, a rough haired Jack Russell, does indeed have a bit of a temper. He permits me to feed him, to walk him and, rather against his will, to wash him whenever he rolls in something disgusting, which is often. He totally ignores me when there are females around, a real ladies man, he's on his best behaviour at such times. Finished with his snack of crisps, he immediately confronted Manny who had been inspecting what was left of the wallet. It belonged to Cue-Ball once more at the second, threatening growl.
Three o'clock was chucking out time and no one complained, although I could have settled in for a session, unlike most of the others who had made the effort. The girlfriend had nursed a coke for all the time she was there, and Cue-Ball managed to rip the wallet to shreds and was eyeing up Barney Rubble's sandals when we took our leave. He took the option on another walk and I suggested that the girlfriend could make a start on the dinner.
Both swans approached upon recognising us but lost interest when they realised there was nothing in the way of food for them. I'd read somewhere that a lot of bread was actually bad for them and had always been mindful not to overdo it.
The sun hadn't made it through all day for the fog and now night was closing in fast. It dawned on me that the only bird I'd heard was the Pen, and then only to complain about her treatment, and that made me sad.
A blanket and a duvet hid the girlfriend from sight. She stirred when Cue-Ball hopped up and buried himself in beside her. The house was like an oven and with no obvious sign of food having been prepared.
I decided I couldn't be bothered, stacking some sounds on the three CD changer and settling into my favourite armchair, but the nap didn't happen.
Cue-Ball let me know there was someone at the front door before I heard the knock, he's quick like that, although it's often the neighbours on either side having visitors, or even someone across the road.
The twins, Luce and Lenny, the girlfriend’s best mates since pre-school days. Cue-Ball never knows which of them to greet first and he's been known to piss himself with the excitement of seeing them. Luce, who lives away and only comes home for the holidays, is a self-confessed nymphomaniac and claims these breaks are rest periods. Lenny is a devout lesbian and spends so much time with us that she has her own wardrobe, which often sets tongues wagging as to what exactly our combined relationship is. Needless to say we don't ever pass comment, thus giving the tongues plenty of room to wag; we find it highly amusing.
Lenny dove straight under the quilt with the girlfriend and Luce plonked herself on my favourite armchair, closely followed by Cue-Ball. I made drinks and turned up the music a couple of notches, just enough to be heard above their chatter.
I still didn't feel like cooking, although everyone claimed to be hungry so I produced the menu for the Chinese takeaway and jotted down the order. Luce and Cue-Ball walked round with me, although Cue-Ball was hesitant until I told him where we were headed. He knows Kwong always throws a sausage in for him and he likes to show his face, to show his appreciation.
A night out had been half planned but by the time Lenny, Cue-Ball and I returned from our after dinner walk the other two were under the duvet after doing the washing up and preparing the spare room. The temperature had dropped to well below freezing again and that must have shown because no one seemed interested in venturing out.
I shaved some hash into the percolator and we scanned the television pages in search of some entertainment, but came up woefully short. When the hash kicked in I was studying the DVD shelf and my eyes latched on to the 'Diesel live in concert', my best Christmas present by a long way. I'd listened to the accompanying CD and had been saving the DVD for when I could watch it in peace. His tour band has his daughter, Lily, singing backing vocals and one song on her own, surely another star in the making. I have all the albums no matter which name he's trading under be it Johnny Diesel, Mark Lizotte or just plain Diesel so the girls know of him and were transfixed as we watched. Cue-Ball slept through most of it, but then he's a bit of a Philistine when it comes to music at the best of times; he didn't complain when Lenny asked me to play the whole thing again. We had more hash, in tea this time, and enjoyed the show all over again.
I woke at ten to find a twin either side of me. I'd heard the girlfriend getting up and taking Cue-Ball out and they must have thought it was me; there's no radiator in the spare room. She brought mugs of tea and we all slept in the same bed until gone twelve and, since I was first in and out of the shower, I was made responsible for getting the breakfast going.
The sun didn't show again but no one seemed bothered by that, all reckoning the new year got itself off to a half decent start for a change.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of twelve novels, two short story collections and six collections of McLimericks. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of twelve novels, two short story collections and six collections of McLimericks. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.