The Street and other stories Read Online Free

half-asleep, half-awake spring mood about the street. Sammy McArdle stood at the doorway of the bank. He had started as security man at the bank at the age of sixty; he was now in his second year in the job, the first regular, full-time employment he had ever had. He checked customers’ bags and parcels as they entered the bank; it wasn’t strenuous work and he enjoyed it.
    Castle Street was a short, bustling street of high buildings, pubs, clothes shops, arcades, a bank, big stores and a fish-and-poultry shop, and most days street traders hawked their wares on the side of the street. By now the usual opening rush of early morning customers was over. Sammy hadn’t checked any of them: after all, they had been coming to the bank for years, since before he had ever graced its portals. On Wednesdays like this there were few strangers or new customers for him to scrutinise.
    Jimmy from Eastwood’s bookies had given him a tip for the big race, and big Gillen had stood for a minute or two with his bags of loose change, chatting about his bad back and the poor trade. Since then no one else had come Sammy’s or the bank’s way. Not that he minded: it would have been difficult to mind anything, he mused, on such a fine day. Even the British army foot patrols didn’t bother him.
    From the other side of the street Buster Traynor, the street-sweeper, shouted a greeting to him.
    “What about ye?”
    “Dead on,” Sammy replied, stepping out from the shade of the bank’s doorway. “It’s a great day, isn’t it?”
    “Gorgeous,” Buster agreed, leaning, arms crossed, on his brush. “It’s well for you, nothing to do but to stand about all day enjoying the sunshine.”
    “Aye,” Sammy laughed, “it’s desperate, isn’t it?”
    “And you’re getting paid for it, too,” Buster continued. “Some people have all the luck.” He started brushing the street again.
    “G’wan out of that with you,” Sammy chuckled. “You neither work nor want. A day’s work would kill you, so it would.”
    “That’s all you know. You and Cloop have a lot in common.” Buster gestured down to the corner.
    Sammy gave a wry smile: Cloop was the bane of his life. “You really know how to hurt me, don’t you?” he chided.
    “See you later,” Buster smiled. “I can’t hang about here all day. I’ll send Cloop up to keep you company.”
    “Well dare ya,” Sammy warned.
    Buster continued on his way, pushing his brush and little pile of rubbish in front of him.
    Sammy gazed down the street towards Cloop, who was sitting on the pavement at the corner of Chapel Lane. Basking in the sun, his back against the wall, face tilted towards the sky, he had one leg beneath him and the other stretched across the pavement so that pedestrians had to make a detour around him and his strategically placed cap. Cloop was a wino, and he and Sammy confronted one another whenever Cloop set up his pitch outside the bank. Sammy was under strict orders to shift all loiterers. Usually Cloop complied with his request to move along but occasionally he was abusive, especially if there was anyone watching or if he was egged on. Sammy had given him a few bob once to bribe him to leave: the next day a queue of winos had settled outside the bank. That was the day Sammy’s patience with Cloop ran out.
    Sammy was a decent man. Life had not been good to him, but he tolerated its inadequacies. He was by temperament a patient, pleasant, easygoing Christian. He had learned through a lifetime of little indignities to be dignified, to turn the other cheek, to endure. But he had rarely been satisfied; that had come belatedly to him with his job at the bank. It wasn’t the wages: they were meagre, but his needs were humble enough anyway. No, he just liked being employed. He liked the responsibility, the company, the sense of well-being, of belonging; he liked having something to do. He liked Castle Street, especially on mornings like this. But he resented Cloop. And now