Docherty (37 page)

‘Me? Ah’m jist gaun through here.’

‘Come ‘ere, you.’

Conn walked over.

‘It coasts money tae get in here. Noo hoo long wull ye be wantin’ tae stey?’

‘As shoart a bluidy time as poassible,’ Conn said. ‘Ah’m nearly suffocatit already. If ye cut up the smell in here, ye could build hooses wi’ it.’

The instantaneousness of his own anger surprised Conn. He was usually much more awkward at coping with strange situations. The past few weeks must have aged him.

‘A bloody smert boay, eh,’ the man said. ‘Well, ye canny go in.’

‘Listen, eejit,’ Conn said. ‘Ma brither’s in yer doss-hoose. Angus Docherty.’ He saw the name register. ‘Ah’m goin’ in tae see ‘im. If ye’re gonny get the fire-brigade, get them noo.’

As he walked away, he heard the man say, ‘Cheeky bugger,’ and slam the hatch shut.

The light in the dormitory was dull, a kind of second-hand daylight, as if it tarnished by coming into touch with the furnishings. Conn made out Angus at the far end of the right-hand row, lying on his bed and smoking. Angus flexed open his right hand by way of greeting.

There was a man half-way down the row, kneeling between beds and polishing his boots. He had the rags spread on the floor around him and as Conn passed, his foot scuffed one of them.

‘Watch whaur ye’re walkin’, hawkheid!’ the man snarled.

Conn stopped. But before he could answer, Angus’s voice was there.

‘Hey, you. If ye don’t want yer bits roon’ yer neck fur a grauvit, watch whit ye’re sayin’.’

‘Ho-ho. It’s a freen’ o’ yours, big Gus. Ah never kent, Gus. Ah never kent.’ He winked elaborately at Conn. ‘Pass, friend. Ha-ha!’

On the way towards Angus, Conn passed a man on the other side lying reading a comic. Otherwise, the place was empty.

‘Home, sweet home,’ Conn said and sat on Angus’s bed.

‘Ye get used tae it ance ye’re deid,’ Angus said. ‘Want a fag?’

He threw him the packet. Conn took one out and lit it. Giving the packet back, he noticed how garishly out of place Angus was here. He was scrubbed to a shine and all his clothes were clean.

‘Ah’ve goat ye the place then, Angus, if ye want it.’

‘Wi’ that Mrs Meldrum? Whit does it luk like?’

‘Aw, it’s nice. Ye’ll hiv the wan room, like. An’ she’s goat a sink.’

‘His she? Ye’re shair she’s a complete stranger?’

‘Aye. Ah didny ken ‘er fae Eve. She’s a gey auld wumman. Jist leeves hersel’.’

‘That’ll be fair enough.’

‘Christ, Angus, this is terrible in here. If ma mither kent ye were here, she’d go aff ‘er heid.’

‘Ye hivny teilt ‘er, hiv ye?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Naw. Because Ah teilt ‘er Ah wis in wi’ Buzz Crawley’s mither.’

‘Why did ye no’ go there?’

‘Ah don’t want ony favours. That’s why Ah had tae go wi’ somebody that’s a stranger.’

Conn smoked, watching Angus sprawled there in utter ease. He was in complete contradiction to the place around him, seemed to have found himself where Conn couldn’t believe there was anything to find. Conn couldn’t understand it. He needed to probe.

‘Christ, whit a place, Angus!’ he started again. ‘Ah mean, there’s no’ onythin left aboot even. Ken whit Ah mean. Belongin’ tae onybody. It’s as if naebody leeved here.’

‘Ye daurny lea’e things aboot,’ Angus said. ‘They wid mooch them. Mooch everythin’ here. Naw,’ he added as Conn started to laugh. ‘Richt enough. They’ve goat tae nail doon the coabwebs. There’s a place whaur ye can get things loacked up. Though Ah don’t trust the bugger that loacks them. Naw, naw. Ye canny sleep too heavy in here. They’d mooch yer belly-button.’

Feeling Angus opening out, Conn encouraged him further.

‘Whit did ye come here fur, though? Wur ye jist hopin’ ma feyther wid hear aboot it an’ get annoyed?’

‘That’s the least o’ ma worries. Naw. Ah wisny in ony hurry tae get oot o’ here. Ah’ve been studyin’ it. Sortin’ maself oot. It’s like Mick wi’ his books. This has been ma book, Conn. These are the kinna folk ma feyther’s aye oan aboot. The folk at the boattom. Well, this is the boattom. Tae get ony lower than this, ye’d hiv tae burrow. An’ ye should see them. See that bloke wi’ the coamic. Pathetic wee man. Dae onythin’ fur a drink. Eat yer shite fur a drink, he wid. See that bugger polishin’ the bits. A nothin’. Ye’d need a microscope tae fin’ his hert. But gi’e ‘im the chance an’ he’d stamp ye intae the grund. The folk at the boattom are only there because they canny be onywhere else. Did ye see the yin at the wee hatch?’

‘Aye,’ Conn said. ‘He wis nigglin’ right away.’

‘Of coorse, he wis. Hoo’s that fur a welcome mat? Sets the tone o’ the place right away. He’s goat nothin’ an’ he’s lookin’ fur folk wi’ less so that he can screw them tae it hurts. Ah’ve watched them in here, Conn. An’ they’re a’ like that. Maybe ma feyther wis richt. Ye can see the truth at the boattom. Ah’ve seen it. Dug eat dug. They’d take the hairs oot yer erse if they thocht they could sell them fur brushes.’

Angus stubbed his cigarette out in a saucer.

‘Ah don’t ken,’ Conn said. ‘You seem tae be survivin’ a’ richt.’

‘Aye, but Ah ken who Ah am. An’ whit Ah’ve goat tae dae. They don’t interfere wi’ me. Ah’m a separate state. They’d get the hob-nailed bit in the teeth if they did. An’ they ken it.’

Conn finished his cigarette and put it out in the saucer. Angus swung round off the bed. He stood up and stretched, pulled on his jacket.

‘Come oan,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll get up tae ma digs.’

‘Ye want tae see whit they’re like?’

‘Naw. Ah’ll jist get ma stuff the noo an’ move in the day. Sunday’s a guid day fur movin’ intae a new place.’

‘But ye better check it first.’

‘Naw. Ah’m feenished wi’ this place. Ah only steyed in it this long tae fix in ma mind whit it’s like. In case Ah wis ever tempted tae get saft. But Ah’ll no’ forget it noo. An’ Ah’ll never be back.’ He looked round it, smiling. ‘Ah’ve passed ma exams.’

On the way out, Angus stopped beside the man with the boots. The man was giving them a final going-over with a duster. The way he was drawing it out gave the impression that this was his idea of passing a pleasant Sunday. He nodded brightly to Angus.

‘Don’t poalish too hard, noo,’ Angus said. ‘Ye micht see yer face in them.’

At the hatch Angus rattled the wood with his fingers. The head poked out of its kennel.

‘Ah’m collectin’ ma gear,’ Angus said.

‘Ye’ll need tae pey fur the nicht then.’

‘Why?’

‘Cause yer bed’s been booked. Ah thocht ye were steyin’. Ah coulda been turnin’ awa’ bookin’s fur a’ you ken.’

‘Whit bookin’s? Jesus Christ. Ye’ve goat tae Shanghai folk tae get them in here.’

‘It disny maitter, Gus. The rules is the rules. We hiv tae be inform’t before nine o’clock. Or ye’re due the money fur the next nicht.’

Angus paid him off. His stuff was in one suitcase and a sack. Angus checked the stuff in the sack and gave it to Conn. It felt as if it was mainly two pairs of boots. Angus put his hand in the hatch as the man tried to shut it.

‘Jist wan thing,’ he said. ‘Ah hear when Aul’ Fiddler left, his parcel wis weeer than when he came in. Ah’ll be checkin’ this case et ma digs. Ah want you tae tell me aboot it the noo.’

‘Nut a body’s been near it, Gus. Untouched by human haun.’

‘Pray tae be honest,’ Gus said and slid the hatch.

He was laughing as they came out into the street. They were headed towards the Netherton.

‘Ach, it doesny maitter too much whit this place is like onywey. Ah’ll no’ be in it that long.’

He was waiting for Conn to ask.

‘Why will ye no’?’

‘Because Ah’m gonny get mairrit.’

Conn looked at him. Angus was walking briskly, looking around him, his case tucked under his arm like a cardboard box.

‘Ye didnt tell ony o’ us that.’

‘Naebody asked me, did they?’

‘When is this?’

‘Oh, a wee while yit. There’s nae hurry. This time.’ And he was laughing again.

‘Who’s the lassie?’

‘Ah don’ think ye ken ‘er. Annie she’s ca’ed. She comes fae Irvine. She’s a’ richt. She isny hauf. Ye’ll see ‘er at the waddin’. If no’ before.’

Conn was still recovering when Angus stopped at the corner of the street.

‘This is the street?’

‘Aye,’ Conn said vaguely.

‘An’ it’s number seeventeen.’

‘Aye.’

‘Richt, Ah’ll take that.’

He took the sack from Conn.

‘Thanks fur yer help then, Conn. Ah’ll be seein’ ye efter.’

Conn started to wave and found he was waving at Angus’s back. There was nothing else that Angus wanted to say.

7

‘Pathetic!’ Jack said, throwing down the paper. ‘That’s the miners goin’ back fur the same money they were gettin’ before the lock-oot. Eleeven weeks they’ve been oot. Fur nothin’. They huvny as mony brains as gi’e them a sair heid, thae miners.’

He said it to the room, as if Kathleen were an eavesdropper. He rose and stretched.

‘Whit will yer auld man say tae that then?’

Working with the iron, Kathleen didn’t look up.

‘The great Tam, eh. Eleeven weeks ago he wis sayin’ they were gonny dae it this time.’ He gave a grotesque parody of Tam’s voice. ‘We’re gonny make it coont this time.’ He laughed disproportionately. ‘It’s always the next time wi’ him, intit? He’s daft enough tae believe in Santa Claus. Ah wonder whit his excuse’ll be this time. Ah’d like tae hear it.’

Kathleen knew she mustn’t answer. If she answered, she would lose her temper, and if she lost her temper, he would strike her. She bore it, knowing he would be out of the house soon. He was putting on his shoes. She wondered if it was guilt that made him like to exit on a quarrel, to put himself in the role of a man righteously storming out of a house in which he could get no peace.

‘He’s supposed tae be a hard man, tae. He’s jist a coomie. Like big Gus. Muscle fae the neck up.’

She considered what skill enabled him to choose the thing that most denied him and attack it. For in a way he was right to be against her father. It was a question of survival. If there had been no Tam Docherties, Jack Daly would never have needed to face what he’d become. He went on and she gave him nothing but silence, letting his words drip on her thoughts like water torture.

‘They divert me, these folk that are a’ worrit aboot the workin’ classes. Like yer feyther. Ah mean, whit guid his it done ‘im. He’s jist a wee nothin’ like onybody else. Whit has he achieved wi’ it a’? He’s right back where he stertit. Runnin’ oan the spot. That’s whit he’s been daein’ a’ his life. Pair wee bugger.’

He had his jacket on. He was waiting for her to respond. He grew tired of waiting.

‘The next time ye’re up at yer mammy’s, ask ‘im whit his excuse is this time. Will ye ask ‘im? Will ye? Whit’s his excuse?’

Her face clenched and her body buckled at the slamming of the door. She waited, opened her eyes. She had expected to weep but no tears came. There was nothing to cry about in what Jack had said. That was the saddest thing. She wondered if perhaps she had no tears left. People had to connect with you before they moved you. Their marriage was monologues set in silence.

She damped the collar of Alec’s good shirt, sprinkling water from the bowl beside her, ironed the cloth meticulously. She buried her thoughts in the mound of washing beside her, pressing out seams, flattening cuffs. So she had no idea how long it was before the knock came at the door.

She was surprised. She crossed and opened the door and was more surprised. He never came. But he was there, looking almost apologetic and suddenly old.

‘Feyther. Come in.’

‘Hullo, hen.’

He took off his bonnet and walked into the room. Her first thought was that something had happened to her mother. But he crossed to the window and she knew at once that he didn’t know why he was here either.

‘Whaur i’ the wee yins?’ he asked.

‘They’re oot playin’.’

‘Aye. So they should be. It’s a guid nicht.’

He threw the bonnet on a chair, turning into the room.

‘Hoo are ye, hen?’

‘Ah’m fine, feyther, Ah’m fine.’

‘Ken, Ah wis jist oot walkin’. There. An’ Ah thocht. Oor Kathleen. Ah’ll go up an’ see her. An’ Ah came up.’

‘Ah’m gled ye did, feyther.’

She went back to her ironing.

‘An’ ye’re a’ richt, then?’

‘Ah’m fine, feyther. Ah’m fine.’

She knew instinctively that she mustn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t worry him. He looked so vulnerable, so lost, as if the world was a place he had never seen.

‘Ah see ye’re gaun back then,’ she said.

He had lit a cigarette and turned towards the window again. He spoke with his back to her.

‘Aye. We’re gaun back.’

She understood from his voice that she had touched a wound.

‘Funny thing. Ah’ve been in mair strikes than Ah can coont. Ah’ve argied an’ focht wi’ pit managers till Ah wis blue in the face. An’ Ah think Ah’m worse aff than when Ah stertit.’ He blew a jet of air down his nostrils, deprecating himself. ‘This is the feenish.’

She watched his back, aware with sudden panic of what the failure of the lockout meant to him. He had no more hope.

‘Ach, ye’ve aye managed before, feyther.’

‘Before wis before, hen. Och, Ah’ll manage. But it’s no’ goin’ tae happen. Whit Ah thocht could happen. Funny thing. Ah’m fifty-three. An’ Ah micht as weel be ninety. Fur Ah’m by.’

She remembered Jack’s last question going out. That was its answer. Her father had no excuse. He accepted Jack’s definition of himself. The unfairness of it hurt her terribly. She remembered what he had been like, how much he had meant to all of them, how long he had survived complete and unbreakable, it seemed. Standing etched against the window, he seemed to her simply a marvellous man, and no one had the right to make him believe in his failure. She wanted to tell him but there was nothing she could say.

She stood just loving him and understanding at last why he had come. He had always needed to let them see him as he was. He had come to tell her who he was now. And she didn’t believe him. He was making a kind of apology and there was nothing he should apologise for.

‘Ach well,’ he said, turning from the window. ‘Ah’ll hiv a dram, Ah think.’