Long Winter, Long Afternoon

Bill Sutherland

It was, apparently, a harmless little prank to entertain our little corps of half a dozen guys working in the stores department of a garage in Glasgow during the long, cold February of 1963, which remains one of the worst winters in living memory. Frank was normally a good-natured guy who chatted away; quite the thing with us late-teen and twenty-something colleagues. So, it being my turn that day to make the lunchtime cuppa for everyone to go with our packed lunches, what harm was there in having a wee bit of fun by putting some salt in Frank's tea?

He coughed and spluttered and swore. Everybody laughed except Frank, who continued to mutter his favourite swear-words even as I returned from the sink in the corner which served as a kitchen, bringing over a consolation cuppa, already prepared and this time properly made with his customary spoonful of sugar. But Frank was not amused, not happy at all. "You're gonnae be very, very sorry you did that," he said in a convincingly serious tone, initially ignoring the fresh cuppa. "Come on -- it's only a joke," I chuckled. "There's another cup anyway." He brushed me away and insisted: "I don't care. You're for it. You're really for it."

I walked away with a shrug in the way that you do when someone is in a serious huff with you and I began to chat with some of the other guys. Whenever I thought Frank wasn't looking, I would sound out their opinions about what form his retaliation might take and the consensus was that it would not be anything to worry about, nothing serious anyway, although nobody had any suggestions about what it might be. No idea whatsoever.

And so back to work, dealing with customers at the counter, checking the stock lists for what they wanted, and fetching the appropriate car or van parts from the store ledges. When I wasn't busy, and frequently even when I was, my thoughts would return to this unknown punishment which awaited me between now and closing time, a few hours away. Or maybe later. "Nothing to worry about?" Hmm, I wouldn't say that exactly.

But, hold on, the offence wasn't that bad, was it? Maybe it was just the indignity of people laughing at him. Whatever, it was hardly the crime of the century so surely the punishment couldn't be that big a deal. I reasoned that I could rule out anything violent, although he might have decided on some silly prank to play on me. I began to think about some of the things that mates often do to the groom-to-be on stag nights. What could it be? I tried to think of what I might do if I were in his place. There was fresh snow lying on the ground outside . . .

Maybe it could be narrowed down to something that he could do on his own, or could it? Maybe not, so I tried to watch if he had any secretive-looking chats with anyone. It didn't need to be a close pal. Any one of the guys who had had a good laugh earlier might now think it was fair game to even it up by helping him out at my expense. By speaking to everyone in turn I thought I might get some clues or suggestions. But everyone was not just a pal but a suspect now. Perhaps a potential accomplice might trip himself up and give the game away.

Having made no progress that way I decided to tackle the man himself. "So you're not going to tell me what this thing is that you're going to do to get back at me?" I asked with an affected mixture of self-assurance and impatience. "No," he replied, impassive. "Okay. Big deal," I answered irritably as I walked away, feigning nonchalance.

The stores foreman, an approachable older man named Guy, properly Gavin, was no help either. "Frank wouldnae dae anybody any harm!" he pointed out by way of reassurance. No real harm. Nothing serious. Yes, yes, I knew he was not going to break my legs, but what could it actually be?

Later, I caught Frank's eye and smiled over at him. His response was to carry on with what he was doing before looking back at me and running his finger across his throat in mock-Mafia fashion. Two or three times, just to make sure I had got the message. That seemed to make light of it but didn't really help much, as I was already totally convinced by now that, whatever it was, it wouldn't be too serious . . . yes, yes, but what?

As the seemingly stationary clock reluctantly reached one hour from the dreaded five o'clock, I was finally left to work things out on my own when Wee Gary, probably my closest friend, told me he had had enough of this as a topic of conversation. "Gonnae gi'e us peace, Bill? Please! Don't know what Frank's gonnae dae, a' right? Nae idea. Ye've been nippin' ma heid aboot this a' afternoon."

It was all very well for him to shrug it off. I continued to worry, of course, but my mood gradually became one of resignation rather than curiosity. That transition also focused me on a plan -- to get ready for a quick getaway at five o'clock. Yes, that would be a help! He would first have to catch me . . .

When the time came I grabbed my coat and looked over my shoulder for Frank, expecting him to make a move or at least follow closely behind me towards the door. Instead, he was seated, looking totally relaxed.

"Goodnight, Bill," he said, smiling this time. I looked puzzled and asked: "What about the punishment you were going to do?"

"Me? I'm no' gonnae dae anything," chuckled Frank. "I don't need to. You've obviously been worried about it all afternoon, and that's good enough for me." I then gave the fleeting smile of the mightily relieved and unexpectedly reprieved.

"That was the point," he explained. "I think it was Franklin Roosevelt who said: 'We have nothing to fear except fear itself.' Something like that anyway. See you tomorrow, Bill."

Everybody laughed except me.