Ally Doodle (Fragments of a Life)

Legend has it that Ally Doodle asked the nurse in the severe burns unit for a “wee dram and a fag”, on the one occasion he sparked into life before finally passing away. Whether this is true, or just the village myth machine creating its own anecdotes, I cannot really say for sure. Part of me hopes it is. This is how I would like to remember Ally, cheekily asking the nurse for the two things that eventually killed him, after drunkenly dropping a lit regal King Size on to a slumbering body literally wringing with the Bells. For a short time the village gossips they rattled their gums to the maudlin tune of “what a tragedy for the poor old soul”. What a terrible way to go”, never stopping to think that maybe it wasn’t his death, or even the manner of his death, that was the tragedy here, but the poor old bastard’s life. At least it was a different tune from the “holier than thou” hymn of outrage and righteous indignation that was usually sung on his behalf, belted out in the sickening tenor of the self-appointed moral guardian. Different maybe, but not any easier to stomach. You see, Ally was the village drunk and any village worthy of the name has at least one. They seem to fulfill a certain need in small communities – if one didn’t naturally emerge you feel they would have to advertise and ship one in. “Great Opportunity for Hopeless Alcoholic! Can you drink to excess on your own or as part of a team? No driving license preferred. No inhibitions or self respect required Raging temper – optional. If this sounds like you, apply today.” Luckily we had more than our fair share but Ally was the King, the undisputed leader of the six pack. He was the figure of pity and embarrassment for most of the “good respectable village folk”, the one they liked to judge and measure themselves up against but ultimately, someone best shunned and ignored - swept under the fraying carpet of highland village life like so much human dust. For the kids, for me, I have to admit he was a figure of fun; he was our entertainment before computer games and cable television. Whenever he was spotted making one of his meandering trips to or from the tiny bar situated in the building masquerading itself as a hotel we would thoughtlessly make fun of the poor old bastard. I can still recall the perverse pleasure took in this innocently cruel pastime, which amounted to nothing more than the systematic taunting of a helpless old man. It was as if we knew that this was our chance to ridicule a member of the overwhelming adult world, secure in the knowledge that his hopeless shrunken figure, with the face and skin resembling that of an orange with all the colour and life sucked out was no real threat. His mumbled, slurred warnings of retribution and feeble fist waving were comical at best, and did nothing but provide encouragement to gangs of children with their hearts set on fun. No punishment would be forthcoming and we knew it. As we got older (at that vague point where childhood cruelty evolves into adolescent indifference) it was a pastime that would begin to leave a sour taste in the back of our not so innocent young mouths, but one hard to avoid when entertainment is scarce, boredom and ennui the only currency you have to spend. Ally’s death should not have come as a shock, the man was a walking, or more accurately “staggering” government health warning, yet I still felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach when I found out. Over the years he had become more than the village drunk to me. He had evolved into a symbol of permanence; his shambling hunched figure forever clad in a long brown overcoat was a simple undeniable fact of my highland upbringing, like the ancient Abbey around which the village was originally built. Similarly, throughout all the years I knew him he always looked in a kindred sort of ageless, neglected state of disrepair as the Abbey, as though the whisky had aged him prematurely then preserved him in immaculate alcoholic stasis. The sight of him still pissed and staggering through the streets on my rare visits home, was strangely comforting, an umbilical cord to the womb of my childhood. Instead of abuse, this time I would cheerily wave and shout “Hi Ally”, secretly wondering if he remembered me as one of the little bastards who taunted him all those years ago. The truth probably being that he couldn’t remember the night before, let alone the decade previous. The last time I saw Ally it was a beautiful hazy summer afternoon. I was out walking my parents latest dog, then still just a puppy, tearing around the narrow empty streets with the sheer joyous abandon that only puppies perfectly embody; Ally however, was unconscious collapsed less than a hundred yards from the pub, a blood bubble gurgling from one nostril - a single but visceral indicator that he was still alive. I fetched the village doctor (the very same who delivered me in my parents bedroom all those years before and was then named after), panic powering every step up to his cottage nearby. I stood quietly to one side not daring to look as Dr Graham revived him. Together we managed to get him back on his feet, legs as shaky as a newborn foal on a highly polished floor, and escort his spindly, apologetic frame back to his terraced council house. Ally offered me the full bottle of whisky sitting on his ancient dining table as a gesture of thanks insisting that he no longer wanted or needed it. I didn’t want it either but accepted on the doctor’s reasoning that it would do me less harm than it would Ally. I never opened it. And Ally, well he just replaced it. On occasion I find myself thinking about Ally Doodle and his death - was it just an accident, the actions of a drunk old man who didn’t know what he was doing, or just maybe, the pitiable actions of a drunk old man who for once knew exactly. I will never know the answer but I guess the current crop of kids in the village will have to find something else to do, or at least someone else to pick on. As for me, well I wouldn’t know the successor to Ally’s title of village drunk if I were to stumble over him in the street, I just hope the that the original that I did know really did ask that nurse for a “wee dram and a fag”. What’s more I hope he got them.