The Walk Home (6 page)

“Aye right.” Stevie’s Dad smiled at them. “Yous sit an watch while I dae aw the work.”

He finished his side ages before her, then went ahead into the big room. Stevie stayed in the hallway, close to his Mum, so he heard the note of pride when she told him:

“He could get work anywhere, your Da. If he wanted.”

Brush in hand, she said it like she was thinking out loud:

“Big houses, where they pay good wages. South Side, West End.”

She listed places. Not the same ones his Dad had been to with his band. She said:

“Edinburgh, maybe.”

Blinking at Stevie, but it was like she was looking beyond him.

“We could maybe go to London.”

Then she turned her face back to her boards, back at her painting, making it nice now.

Stevie’s Dad could lift his Mum up like she weighed nothing. He did that when he came in from work of an evening: she’d go to the door when she heard it open, and then he’d pick her up and hoist her over his shoulder, carry her through the flat while she slapped at his back, shrieking and glad, until he tumbled her off onto the big bedroom mattress. They could lie there for ages, folded tight, the pair of them together.

On work days his Dad would mostly be gone by the time Stevie woke up. His Mum said he was working all hours for them, and she’d already be dressed when she came in his
bedroom, but she let Stevie drift a bit longer, speaking to him quiet, opening his curtains; and she’d brush out her hair then, standing by the window. It was the only times he saw her hair loose, and the long strands floated up into the air around her shoulders, while she worked through the knots and her eyes went soft, off into the distance.

From Stevie’s bedroom, you could see the whole top part of the scheme, just about. There were always more boarded windows, and Stevie’s Mum counted them while she brushed, pointing out the new ones, telling him folk were only too happy to flit. Then she’d plait her hair with quick fingers and tie the end off with a tight loop of elastic.

On clear days you could see down as far as Glasgow: the big Clyde river and all the cranes at the shipyards. And the planes too, that rose over the city, on their way far and wide. Stevie’s Mum stood and watched them some mornings, even after she’d finished with her hair, and it was like she got stuck there, same look in her grey eyes as when she was painting the skirting boards. Until she told him:

“We’re sitting it out, son.”

Nodding at the view, saying that’s what they had in the meantime.

On days it was raining when she got him out of bed, Stevie’s Mum would say they could stop in the flat until nursery, and she’d pull the big chair over to the window in the living room. She’d put the telly on too, and tuck him into her lap, but mostly she watched the drips on the glass. From there they could see over the golf course and out, to the Kilpatrick Hills: soft peaks that rose beyond the scheme, and when the sun came, Stevie could see the cloud shadows she watched, on the green-grey slopes. One time she said they were just like the hills behind
her father’s house. But she wasn’t like Stevie’s Gran, she never told long stories, she just said that her Dad was his Grandad:

“Your other one. But you’re all right, love. I reckon he’s far enough away from us.”

Stevie thought he sounded further away than Uncle Eric. But he’d worked it out by then: there was family you saw daily, and family you just didn’t. Stevie loved the family he had anyhow. Especially when his Mum said:

“It’s the three of us, right? Me, you, your Da. That’s who counts.”

Stevie listened to the sound of his Mum and Dad talking some nights, after they’d put him to bed; a soft murmur under the drone of the telly. They’d lie wrapped up together on the sofa, Stevie knew, because if he couldn’t sleep, he’d sometimes get out of bed and climb onto the cushions with them. It was the best place to drop off, slotted against his Mum, with his Dad’s big arm across them both.

Eric turned up late for the party. It was in full swing when Brenda pulled him in, and now he was perched with her at one of the corner tables, in the suit he used to wear for work, his nerves scratching away at his throat.

He’d not seen Graham in however long—years—and it was hard to credit the boy was married, even if the pub was packed with folk come to celebrate. Brenda was over the moon about the wedding. So many scheme folk had said it wouldn’t last, when they saw the girl fresh from the boat and pregnant. Odds were laid on her back in Ireland with the baby within a twelvemonth, but now here they were, Graham and Lindsey, five years on and still going strong; better than ever. It was the girl who’d been keen to mark it, by all accounts: she’d done most of the organising. Brenda said it had given a lift to all their lives, and she’d been on at Eric to be here ever since she’d brought round the invitation. She’d stood it on his mantelpiece and told him:

“You’re no duckin out ae this wan.”

Only he thought that’s exactly what he should have done.

Folk were three deep at the bar, and Malky had gone to get the drinks in. It seemed like he’d been gone ages, and there were so many faces Eric couldn’t place but had the feeling he should. They might be his nephews’ wives, or their children: Brenda’s grandkids dressed up in their best jeans for a night off the scheme.

Eric had combed his hair for the occasion, but he’d seen it needed cut. Yellow at the front from his fags, and curling over his collar at the back: hard to keep track of appearances since he’d taken retirement. Two decades a widower, and now a year out of the workaday routine, Eric dug in his pockets for a cigarette, thinking how he wasn’t used to company any more, let alone family. Brenda was the only one he saw these days.

She’d started coming on Tuesdays after Eric stopped going to work; Brenda had taken it upon herself. She usually turned up late afternoon, when she was done with her cleaning jobs, and she ran the hoover over his carpets. His sister checked in his kitchen cupboards too, he’d seen her; like she couldn’t trust him to keep some food in. But Eric bit his lip and let her get on with it, because he knew the worth of Brenda. He’d been through some low times, alone times, when he first left home and then even more so after his wife died, and his sister had always stuck by him. Even in the face of their father’s protests.

Eric had learned much from those times, mostly to steer clear of arguments. It was why he didn’t see family.
Wan a they reasons anyhow
. A myriad of them. A mob, a pack, a knot, that chafed now at the back of his throat.
Too tight tae unpick
. Not today: not at a party, Eric decided.

Brenda and Malky had pulled out all the stops for this one, and folk were having a fine time, pushing the tables aside for
dancing. Eric abandoned the search for his fags, and then Brenda nudged his foot and she started putting names to all the faces, leaning in close to make herself heard above the jukebox. He’d already caught sight of Graham, red-eared and smiling fit to burst, pint in hand at the far wall, in amongst the young folk. A big chip off the family block, Eric thought, just like he was himself, and all his sister’s sons. Brian was part of the group, and Malky Jnr. too, and Brenda said Graham had brought along a couple of work pals. She pointed them out: two boys with bullet heads that Eric had marked down as bandsmen. He’d been keeping a wary eye out for likely suspects since he arrived, but he knew things had gone quiet on that front for Graham, so maybe there were none invited.
Thanks be
. Brenda had told him that was another reason to be grateful for Lindsey, and his sister’s talk was always so full of her on Tuesday afternoons, Eric asked:

“Where’s that girl, then? Where’s the bride?”

Only to catch sight of her just then himself. A quick young thing, slipping out from between the revellers; a slender pair of arms, wrapped around Graham’s waist, pulling at him to come away from the wall and dance. Lindsey was all pink-cheeked from carousing, laughing as she tugged her new and too-shy husband to join in. Graham was never built for moving, but he looked happy too, all give-away blushes, and Eric couldn’t help himself but watch as the girl scooped a young boy onto her hip: russet-haired, fine-boned, the image of his mother. So this was Graham’s new family. A young wife in stockinged feet, with her dress hitched up, wedding shoes discarded, and a son with the same bright-faced look, like he’d been whirled about the room a few times.

“I’ll fetch her over,” Brenda told him, and she was up before he could make a grab at her to stop, calling Lindsey away from
the dancing. Eric felt himself standing; he hadn’t come here to intrude, or make himself a nuisance, and his throat was so tight with nerves as the girl came over, his legs just had to follow suit. Then he put out a hand in greeting, only to find that Lindsey had her hands full.

“I know who you are,” she smiled, shifting her boy higher. “You’re the clever one. My Graham’s clever uncle.”

Was that what the family said about him?

“Aye, Eric’s our prodigy, so he is.” Malky was back with the drinks. “An he’s puttin in a rare appearance, so we’re makin the most. Gies a hand here, wid you, pal?”

Tray in hand, Eric gave a quick glance back to the dancers, and saw more arms had come to pull Graham deeper amid his wedding guests.

“He’ll survive.” Lindsey smiled again, seeing Eric watching. And then Brenda was shuffling them along the bench, until they were all squashed together around the table: Lindsey next to Eric, with her boy on her lap, and Malky on a wee stool opposite, doling out the coasters. He’d bought two drinks for everyone.

“Saves goin up tae the bar again.”

So Brenda gave the girl her spare half, and they all said:

“Cheers.”

“Aye, cheers. The bride an groom.”

And Lindsey laughed:

“Aye, me and Graham.”

She was one of the family now, all official, and she clinked all their glasses, Eric’s included. Not a bad feeling, being included in this circle, so Eric took a good sip of his pint, because he thought a drink might help his throat. He had to clear this ache, join in a bit; Lindsey’s smiling made him want to. Then Malky
leaned across to tell them something he’d heard at the bar. It was something about the tab, which Eric couldn’t catch above the rest of the noise, so he tilted his head, straining a bit, and saw that Lindsey’s young boy was watching. Wee Stevie; how old was he? Coming up for five, must be. He was looking at Eric with his grey eyes, keen as blades, same as his mother’s.
What’s he been told about me?
Did the boy know how he’d been wronged? Did anyone?

Eric gave Stevie a nod, by way of introduction, and he searched his small features, but he found none of Graham, none of his own family in them. No one at the bar looked like Lindsey, or her son. No one else at the party. It was a one-sided affair, Eric thought: none of the girl’s folk were here, and she must be smarting, surely, somewhere under all her smiles. Lindsey was just next to him on the bench, watching the dancing, so even if his nerves still chafed, Eric cast about for conversation.

“Naebody came tae my weddin either.”

Out it rasped, though he hadn’t meant to say that. Even if he’d been thinking it all along: of his Franny, and those few good years they’d had, and how Papa Robert wanted no part in that happiness. Lindsey blinked at him, bright-cheeked, nonplussed, so then Eric had to go on:

“My Da forbade it, aye?”

He’d said Eric had gone too far from him. The words felt harsh in his throat, and they must have been loud, because Brenda turned, and gave him a look.

“I came. I saw you married.”

“You did, right enough,” Eric yielded, hoarse. He wanted to cough, but all eyes were on him, Lindsey’s included, so he tried a smile instead. “My sister there, she braved wrath an retribution. It was a brave person that went against the will ae Papa Robert.”

Eric was trying to make light, but it didn’t work. So he shut up then, abrupt, embarrassed at himself, croaking on about ages-old stuff, that ages-old argument.

I have nourished and brought up children and they have taken against me
. Papa Robert had carried on like Eric had betrayed him, broken faith with all his kin. He’d seen himself as the forsaken patriarch, like something from the Old Testament, and everyone had bent to his will, save Brenda. But the look on his sister’s face told Eric this was neither the time nor the place to give vent to all that. So he nodded her a promise: he’d try hard at stopping his tongue. Best to keep those scratches shut in.

Brenda turned back to Malky, and they picked up where they’d left off. Lindsey kept her eyes on Eric’s face, though: sharp, but not put out, just like he’d caught her interest now.

So he tried to think what he could ask, how he could steer the talk onto safer ground. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, about his wedding, but at least he’d said something, and Eric found he felt better for it: his throat wasn’t half so sore now, and he took a sip of his lager, then another.
I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart
. Psalms, that was from Psalms. That Papa Robert had liked sung; one of those hundreds he could recite. Eric knew it wouldn’t do to recite one now. His hand went back to his pocket for his fags, only then Lindsey spoke:

“You live round here. Am I right?”

She pointed, out the pub windows, up the Maryhill Road, and then she told him:

“Brenda says I should come round one time with her. After we finish here on a Tuesday.”

Eric knew his sister had taken to bringing Lindsey cleaning; ever since Stevie had settled at school, so the girl could save for the wedding. Brenda told him it was double the hands, but they
got through more than double the work, so they’d taken on a couple of extra pubs. This place was one of the newer ones, and Lindsey had talked the landlord into a good deal on a hire for the party. Eric glanced at her, thinking she was a sharp thing all right; much sharper than Graham, from what he remembered of his nephew. And then it occurred to him that she’d been angling for an invite. So unused to family, to company, he couldn’t spot a friendly gesture any more. Or find a ready response.