The Walk Home (31 page)

She and his Dad had made a start on the kitchen cupboards, to make a bit of headway through the easier stuff, and Graham’s brothers said they’d be on hand to help now, most weekends. His Mum had all her sons with her last Saturday, two of her daughters-in-law as well, and it looked like it had been a comfort, having Eric’s kitchen full of family, even if it had come too late for him to see it.

Graham had heard his Mum telling Malky Jnr. as much.

And how she’d be leaving Eric’s desk till last.

So Graham couldn’t help but think now of all the sketches locked inside: his uncle’s new drawing, still unfinished before he’d died.

Eric had kept his desk shut when he came calling; the old man had made a point of it. Not that Graham had been tempted to look. He’d seen enough that riverbank morning, and he’d made his thoughts known. Nothing to be gained, raking over those old coals, so Graham had made his uncle tea and toast, and then left him to his dark drawings.

There had been some Graham liked, even so, over the years; he gave Eric that much. His biro sketches of John Joe’s pigeons, done on the backs of envelopes. And the one in his Mum’s hall too, that Graham could just make out in the telly glow: all his
brothers, lined up and smiling, eating ice-creams. He could see why his Mum still kept it.

Graham had even found some good ones in Lindsey’s box that time, not so long before she’d left him. Pictures of Papa Robert, drawings that caught his best side. The old man, not so old then, secateurs in hand, standing by his close steps, deadheading a rose bush almost as big as he was.

If it was something like that, Eric’s last drawing, Graham thought that would be something. Hope in his last days; Graham even wished it for him. New scheme, new blooms, and Papa Robert’s staunch faith, that life could start anew for them.

Papa Robert’s roses died before him. Two of old age and too-cold winters, and the last of them in the scheme’s worst days, when Graham was a boy. It was felled overnight, by a handful of wee shitebags, armed with thick gloves and hacksaws, out way beyond their bedtime. And Papa Robert was near the end by then, but he still came out roaring when he heard them, only they’d got through the trunk by that stage, and then they’d flung the bush at him, thorns and all, before they ran off crowing.

Such a long time ago now, but Graham still remembered: how the neighbours had a whip-round in the days that came after, enough to buy three new roses. Only Papa Robert would have none of it.

He said they’d never be like his mother’s.

Or half as good as the ones he’d planted with Eric.

And then Graham thought how Eric shouldn’t have been a draughtsman, even if he’d turned out a good one. He should have got his Highers, maybe he should have gone to university. Who knew what hopes Papa Robert had had for him?

Papa Robert was a hard grandfather to love.

Graham reckoned he must have been a much harder Dad.

And so what kind of father had he been to Stevie? It hurt Graham to think he’d given him reason to run off.

But it gave him heart just then, all the same, that Eric had tried drawing Papa Robert again. He’d given him another go, so sons could do that, if you gave them time, maybe, and cause. Not just bitter about everything he’d lost, Eric had tried to remember what else his Dad was. A teetotaller, a steady and reliable worker, a church elder, and a grower of fine roses. A Louth boy, and a Glasgow man; Papa Robert was a father too. And Graham still wanted to be a better one.

“You still here, son?”

His Mum was standing in the doorway, in her dressing gown, face a soft smile. Like she knew she’d caught him hoping, waiting up like she did. It was just a short drive across the scheme to his own house, but she told him:

“You can aye stay here. You know that.”

Graham nodded: he did now. It did him good to hear it. A while since he could take that for granted.

He turned to look at the clock, well after midnight. Should he sleep now, or go out driving about, looking for Stevie? What would happen if he found him?

“Could still take him years, son. Tae find his way home.”

Graham looked at his mother, abrupt, feeling like she’d looked right through him. But it was a kind look she gave him, like she knew it was painful. Hard to be hopeful, but not too much; keeping faith, over the long haul. She said:

“It’s Stevie’s choice tae make. So we’ll just have tae wait.”

Like she’d thought all this over, and it would only lead to hurt, getting their hopes up too early.

Graham blinked, not sure what to say to that. He stood himself up. Was that all there was to say here?

He looked at his mother, thinking Stevie was out there, somewhere, so he couldn’t just do nothing till he came here.

Except Graham couldn’t find the words to put her right, not just then. How long had it taken Eric before he drew his Dad again?

He sighed.

“Can I take you up on that bed, Maw?” Graham asked, for want of a better response, and then he took himself into the spare room to sleep on it.

But he woke again, briefly, at three. Thought he heard his Dad’s key. Allowed himself to think it was Stevie. And then he was back drifting, and Graham’s dreaming mind took over; he was already on tomorrow night, the night after, searching the streets between here and the South Side. Watching for a small red head to show up on the pavements.

Grateful thanks to:

Toby Eady and Jamie Coleman, for sticking with me while I stuck this one out. Ditto Dan Frank, and for cutting to the chase when it was needed. Lennie Goodings, for her careful persistence; very much appreciated.

Anne Campbell, Willy Maley, Alison Miller, Caroline Rye and Paul Welsh, for all the reading and support over the years.

John Freeman and all the good folk at Granta, for their timely intervention.

Jo Seeley likewise, and for helping me to put things in a new light.

Alan Bisset, for pointing me in the right direction early on.

Kevin, for all the time he gave over, with good humour; and his family, for letting me bend his ear.

The Grand Orange Lodge of Scotland, in particular Robert, Malcolm, Tom and David, for their generosity and openness.

The Queen Elizabeth Accordion Band, especially Harry and
John, who welcomed me both at Whiteinch practices and on Walk days, and were endlessly patient with all my questions.

Sarah Ward, for long friendship, and who first took me to Drumchapel, too many years ago now to think about.

And Michael, just because.

Those who know Drumchapel well will spot that the timeline of its regeneration is a little elastic in this novel. I hope I have remained faithful in principle to the process and that they will therefore permit me this leeway.

Rachel Seiffert’s first novel,
The Dark Room
, was short-listed for the Booker Prize, won the Los Angeles Times First Fiction Prize, and was the basis for the acclaimed motion picture
Lore
. She was one of
Granta
’s Best of Young British Novelists in 2003; in 2004,
Field Study
, her collection of short stories, received an award from PEN International. Her second novel,
Afterwards
, was long-listed for the 2007 Orange Prize, and in 2011 she received the E. M. Forster Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her books have been published in eighteen languages. Formerly of Glasgow, she now lives in London with her family.

This guide is designed to enhance your reading group’s focus on some of the main concepts in this book and to enable readers to explore and share different perspectives. Feel free to wander in your discussions, and use this as a guideline only!

Discussion Questions:

Suggested Reading:

Monica Ali,
Brick Lane

Tessa Hadley,
Clever Girl

Rachel Seiffert,
Afterwards

Zadie Smith,
NW

Irvine Welsh,
Trainspotting