it over oneshoulder. Sarahâs father had been friendly. Murdoâs father hadnt been friendly back; the very opposite, not even polite. It was just embarrassing. Murdo should have told him to eat the bread himself.
That would have been cheeky. But better Dad eating it than leaving it behind. Good bread and cheese. Although the bread wasnt that good anyway, it had an unusual flavour and tasted sugary. The cheese would have made it okay.
Imagine an actual meal.
Saying no to an actual meal. Why would anybody do that? Murdo wasnt the huffy one there it was Dad. What point was he making? It had to be a point. It would have been good food too, hot food. Even just to see what it was. Different people ate different meals. Americans too so what would that have meant? Good gravy and mashed potatoes maybe, cabbage and peas. Sunday lunch. Roast meat and vegetables.
That was a real meal. Murdo and his father didnt have real meals. Not nowadays, not for Sunday lunch. They didnt have Sunday lunch. They didnt have any lunch; only like toast, and soup out a tin if ye could be bothered bloody opening it. They had their meal in the evening. It was usually okay. Sometimes they had a whole steak pie bought out the butcher. They halved it for Sunday and Monday. Dad did frozen roast potatoes and peas, sometimes carrots. There was usually a football match on television. Dad liked football. Murdo did too but not so much as him.
When they reached the bus station the taxi driver drove round the other side of the bus park area. There was a restaurant. A huge big place standing on its own ground. Menus were posted outside the door, long lists of grub, all different stuff. Dad peered inside through the restaurant window. Itâs busy, he said. He checked his wristwatch. He peered in again. I think itâs too busy, he said.
Murdo saw in the window, saw empty tables. People were coming out the restaurant and others were going in. Mostly families, mostly black people. Round the side of the building Murdo saw two cars queuing for takeaways. There was a hatch to give in yer orders.
Do ye know what yeâre having? said Dad.
Hamburger and chips. Are we not going in?
Itâs too busy.
Aye but itâs big inside. Thereâs empty tables.
I think weâre better with a carry-out son, just to be on the safe side. I know weâre in good time but ye never know.
Murdo waited by the front entrance while Dad placed the order, he strolled to the edge of the pavement. This street was parallel to the main road. If he crossed here, turned right and kept in a straight line, he would arrive at the Wild West shop and the pawnshop. The accordeon would still have been there. It wouldnt have sold since last night. Unless pawnshops opened on Sundays. Maybe they did.
When the food arrived they strolled round the block eating it. Dad didnt want to go inside the waiting room until the food was finished. They sat on a bench in the bus parking area. The hamburger was okay but the chips were the thinnest ever; not even crispy which would have made them bearable. The best bit was the bun. One of these wee pick-up trucks entered. Murdo watched it circle about. This place was reserved for buses. The truck reversed into the stance across the way. The horn tooted. The front passenger door opened and Sarah was there â Sarah! Murdo was onto his feet immediately. Dad itâs Sarah! And Joel too Dad look itâs me, itâs me theyâre looking for!
Joel kept the engine running. Sarah saw him and sat back in the passenger seat leaving the door open. Murdo jogged across, laughing. She had a packet for him. A present of two CDs; one from her and one from Queen Monzee-ay. Gran was talking after you left, she said, about the gig. Would you want to sit in Murdo?
What?
Sheâs hoping you will, thatâd be so cool.
She had a locket round her neck. Had she been wearing it this morning? Murdo couldnt remember. Just seeing it made ye smile. Where
That would have been cheeky. But better Dad eating it than leaving it behind. Good bread and cheese. Although the bread wasnt that good anyway, it had an unusual flavour and tasted sugary. The cheese would have made it okay.
Imagine an actual meal.
Saying no to an actual meal. Why would anybody do that? Murdo wasnt the huffy one there it was Dad. What point was he making? It had to be a point. It would have been good food too, hot food. Even just to see what it was. Different people ate different meals. Americans too so what would that have meant? Good gravy and mashed potatoes maybe, cabbage and peas. Sunday lunch. Roast meat and vegetables.
That was a real meal. Murdo and his father didnt have real meals. Not nowadays, not for Sunday lunch. They didnt have Sunday lunch. They didnt have any lunch; only like toast, and soup out a tin if ye could be bothered bloody opening it. They had their meal in the evening. It was usually okay. Sometimes they had a whole steak pie bought out the butcher. They halved it for Sunday and Monday. Dad did frozen roast potatoes and peas, sometimes carrots. There was usually a football match on television. Dad liked football. Murdo did too but not so much as him.
When they reached the bus station the taxi driver drove round the other side of the bus park area. There was a restaurant. A huge big place standing on its own ground. Menus were posted outside the door, long lists of grub, all different stuff. Dad peered inside through the restaurant window. Itâs busy, he said. He checked his wristwatch. He peered in again. I think itâs too busy, he said.
Murdo saw in the window, saw empty tables. People were coming out the restaurant and others were going in. Mostly families, mostly black people. Round the side of the building Murdo saw two cars queuing for takeaways. There was a hatch to give in yer orders.
Do ye know what yeâre having? said Dad.
Hamburger and chips. Are we not going in?
Itâs too busy.
Aye but itâs big inside. Thereâs empty tables.
I think weâre better with a carry-out son, just to be on the safe side. I know weâre in good time but ye never know.
Murdo waited by the front entrance while Dad placed the order, he strolled to the edge of the pavement. This street was parallel to the main road. If he crossed here, turned right and kept in a straight line, he would arrive at the Wild West shop and the pawnshop. The accordeon would still have been there. It wouldnt have sold since last night. Unless pawnshops opened on Sundays. Maybe they did.
When the food arrived they strolled round the block eating it. Dad didnt want to go inside the waiting room until the food was finished. They sat on a bench in the bus parking area. The hamburger was okay but the chips were the thinnest ever; not even crispy which would have made them bearable. The best bit was the bun. One of these wee pick-up trucks entered. Murdo watched it circle about. This place was reserved for buses. The truck reversed into the stance across the way. The horn tooted. The front passenger door opened and Sarah was there â Sarah! Murdo was onto his feet immediately. Dad itâs Sarah! And Joel too Dad look itâs me, itâs me theyâre looking for!
Joel kept the engine running. Sarah saw him and sat back in the passenger seat leaving the door open. Murdo jogged across, laughing. She had a packet for him. A present of two CDs; one from her and one from Queen Monzee-ay. Gran was talking after you left, she said, about the gig. Would you want to sit in Murdo?
What?
Sheâs hoping you will, thatâd be so cool.
She had a locket round her neck. Had she been wearing it this morning? Murdo couldnt remember. Just seeing it made ye smile. Where
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