The Cutting Room by Louise Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

their door dates their establishment to 1882 and their back catalogue covers almost every part of the city through the last century. I’d helped
    them fill gaps in that catalogue over the years, calling on them whenever I found something I thought they might like. They
    are known for being a good family firm, close, like all these old business families. No under-the-counter trade there.
    They’d treated me with politeness and courtesy and I was
    going to thank them by spoiling their day. But they had been born with silver nitrate in their veins and if anyone could tell me whether these photographs were real it would be one of
    the Balfour boys. I peered through the window, trying to
    make out who was inside, hoping for Dougie, the eldest
    brother, but unable to see the interior for the prints crowding the display. I walked round to the side of the building and
    entered the shop.
     
    `Well, Mr Rilke, long time no see. How have you been?
    Mrs Balfour was the kind of mother every boy thought he
     
    might like. Neat, well dressed, a short practical woman. Who knows, she might have beaten her boys every night of their
    lives with a wire coat hanger, but she made me think of mince and tatties and stories at bedtime. I’m apt to be sentimental about other people’s mothers. There was a large sheet of glass on a carpeted workbench, Mrs Balfour was poised over it,
    halfway through cutting it down to frame size. She looked up at me quickly, the laser-sharp scalpel still in her hand.
    `Just give me a minute, son. If I stop now I’ll make a mess
    of this.’
     
    I watched the blade as she guided it gently through the
    glass, using a steel ruler a foot long to mark the line. I thought of an Arctic vessel creeping slowly under dark skies, skirting icebergs, destined to sink; then, with a final snap, the scalpel broke free. She straightened up and smiled at me.
    `Now, that’s it. Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do
    for you? Is there something in the saleroom you think we
    might like??
     
    ‘Not at the moment, Mrs Balfour. I might have something
    coming up, you never know. This is more in the way of a
    social call. Is Dougie around?
     
    The smile didn’t move but there was a quick flicker behind
    her eyes that told me she thought I’d come to try and borrow money. I’m not in the habit of making social calls, and if it were business I’d be as well talking to her.
    `I’ve not got any Balfour plates, but I’ve come across some
    other material I’d like his advice on.’
    `Something you’d rather I didn’t see?
    She was sharp.
    `I’d not be comfortable showing it to you.’
    `You’re a gentleman, Rilke. Softer than you look. I doubt
    it’s anything I haven’t seen before, but I respect your honesty.
     
    Dougie’s not here.’ She smiled, and there was a bitterness in this smile. `He’s in his office. Why don’t you go and chat to him there? I made a move to walk round the counter. `No,
    son, not that office, he’s in Lester’s, three doors up.’
    And I realised she’d not been worried I was going to
    borrow money, she’d thought I might be due it.
    There’s a move to make gambling socially acceptable. Dog
    tracks offer corporate hospitality, the lottery is Saturday
    night, family entertainment and Internet bets are the click
    of a mouse away. None of these moves has reached Lester’s.
    The door swung open lightly, oiled by use and I entered into a fug of smoke.
    Lester’s is a simple arrangement. The concrete floor is
    littered with old dowts and losing slips. To the right is a booth where the teller sits behind a protective grille, handling
    wagers and payouts. Penny-ante stuff for the most part,
    but Lester’s has had its big wins. Lester’s office is beside her, with Lester himself in constant attendance. Squint sideways through the office door and you’ll see his bald pate bent
    over mysterious paperwork, or perhaps the broad back of a
    man in a suit as he leans back on Lester’s visitor chair.