The Walk Home (7 page)

Stevie was getting restless, stuck in the corner with the old folk, so Lindsey gave him a couple of coasters to shove about the table, and Eric sat and watched the pair of them, because they were a picture, Lindsey and her son. Peas in a pod, there on the pub bench.

One of the coasters landed on the floor by Eric’s feet, so he picked it up, and found it was blank underneath. He needed to do something now—try a friendly gesture in return—so he dug about in his pockets again, this time for a pencil. Eric drew a quick sketch for Stevie to guess, because he used to do that with Brenda’s boys, years ago, when they still came with her for a visit. He could draw things on demand, and it had kept his nephews happy on their afternoons off Drumchapel. So when Eric finished his picture, he pushed it under Stevie’s nose, waiting until he’d worked out the lines:

“Dog.”

Stevie pushed the coaster back, and Eric smiled and started drawing afresh.

“Bus.”

Now the boy smiled as well, catching on: he was meant to guess before the picture was done. Eric remembered how much Graham had liked this game, and that he’d kept visiting with Brenda the longest: until he’d joined the band, almost. Eric had
known him best of all his nephews, and he’d enjoyed their days together well enough, even if Graham wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. It might be nice if his boy came round instead, once in a while, so Eric told Stevie:

“I used tae play this wae your Da.”

Even if the child wasn’t interested, not really; his focus on Eric’s pencil, his deft young mind watching the lines, turning into something.

“Drum!”

Stevie guessed right, first time, but then Eric saw how Lindsey’s eyes turned to the coaster: too swift. Might be best to draw something else. Change the subject again, steer clear of the sore points; when would he learn? The small cardboard square was full of his scribbles, so Eric took the one from under his glass, and he told her:

“I used tae draw for wages, so I did. Out at wan ae the Greenock yards; I drew ships that never sailed, never got built. The Koreans do it now. They were glad tae retire me anyhow.”

Lindsey narrowed her eyes at him, like she was trying to decide if he was serious now, or having her on. He wasn’t bitter, all hung up on yesterdays; Eric didn’t want her thinking that about him. So he concentrated a moment on the lines he was making. He was trying a drawing of Lindsey, and he’d finished her face and hair, so now he moved on to her arm, holding her son. She was holding Stevie back, because he was leaning forwards on her lap, watching the pencil, wondering how this new picture was taking so much longer.

“That me?”

Stevie looked up at Eric, his wee mouth open, delighted:

“That’s me, aye?”

Eric nodded:

“It’s you an your mother.”

He handed Stevie the coaster, and the boy blinked at it, dead pleased. It seemed like Lindsey was too, smiling down at his picture, so Eric thought it had worked, his small gesture. And maybe he could get better again, at being in company.

“You’ll have tae come by someday, like you said. Come an visit.”

The words were out before Eric knew it. Lindsey gave him a nod, like that was decided, and then Eric sat back on the bench, thinking how easy that had come, easier than he’d thought. He didn’t know what it would be like, having family in the house after all this time, but he’d wanted to say it, and it was said now.

Lindsey’s days were so full now she was married, of Stevie and cleaning jobs too, it felt like she was either with her boy or mopping someone else’s floors, or getting on buses, on to the next house. The wedding was paid for, but she’d kept working. She and Brenda had jobs all over town and the West End, and Lindsey had to fit them all around Stevie’s school hours, so some days she just took him with her; even if the teachers frowned, she wasn’t going to turn down good earnings. Lindsey had started putting a bit aside, on the quiet, to buy a proper bed for her and Graham, or something better maybe, if she was earning enough for the loan repayments.

It was the times when she stopped, in the middle of all that rush, that’s when Lindsey thought about Eric. On the bus, stuck at the lights, or when she put Stevie to bed at night; she lay curled about her boy, waiting for him to drop off, and thought about things the old man had said.
Naebody came tae my weddin either
.

Eric had said she should come round, and the news had Brenda raising her eyebrows.

“You must ae made some impression.”

She told Lindsey it would do her brother no end of good, and she was happy to sort out a Tuesday.

“Soon as I’m back on my feet, hen.”

She’d been laid up with a chest cold since the wedding, but the thought of a visit had Brenda cheered, and patting Stevie’s cheeks:

“I’ll take you tae my brother’s. Another uncle tae add tae your collection.”

Stevie’s ears pricked up whenever Eric came up in conversation: he liked hearing talk about the old man who did the pictures. Lindsey did too, even if she didn’t know what to make of him. She’d kept the coaster, with the drawing of her and Stevie, and she couldn’t decide if Eric was shy, or maybe just on his own too much.

“What if we all go? All together?”

She put it to Graham, one evening on the sofa, after the working day was over:

“You could come along too, with me and Brenda.”

Only Graham pulled a face, like he wasn’t too keen:

“Eric’s clever, aye. He’s no the easiest, but. You might ae noticed.”

Lindsey had done. But she didn’t mind that. So she said:

“He’s different, in any case.”

She’d asked Graham already about Eric’s wedding, but it was before he was born, and he couldn’t remember too much about his Auntie Franny either, because she passed away ages back,
before he even started school. So all Lindsey knew so far was that Eric’s marriage was cut short, and he never got to have kids either, but it had started to make sense of him. It had got Lindsey wondering too: what the old man did with his days now, all alone.

It was November and cold that first Tuesday she went to visit. She kept Stevie off school, and took him cleaning with her and Brenda, bundled into his big coat so he wouldn’t get chilly at the bus stops between jobs.

They finished with time to spare, and went for tea and rounds of toast in a Maryhill cafe, only Brenda didn’t eat much, just wrapped her hands about her mug. She still had that cough, it was taking her forever to shake it off, and she told Lindsey:

“Aw my get up an go, hen. It’s got up an left me.”

Brenda made out she just needed a sit, before they walked on to Eric’s, but from the look of her parked on the bench next to Stevie, Lindsey thought she just wanted to stay there, her big shoulders folded about herself.

“We’ll go. You go home.”

She pushed her bus fare into Brenda’s palm, and kept on pushing, until she took it.

“Ach, you’re a good girl.”

Lindsey smiled at her:

“I know I am.”

She cut through the back streets, off the Maryhill Road, letting Stevie dawdle so they wouldn’t turn up too early.

It was all tenements here, but good ones: the old and proper
kind, red sandstone. Not grand like the ones she cleaned in Dowanhill and Hyndland, but not flung up or breeze block either, like the ones on the scheme. Lindsey knew from Graham that Eric lived in a bought house, and she looked about herself, thinking he’d earned his way out of Drumchapel, so it could be done. The steps here were worn from years and feet, and the paintwork ancient on the sashes, but she didn’t mind that, it made the places homely. So Lindsey took her time, but they were still early buzzing at Eric’s close door.

The old man was all smiles and surprise, coming out of his flat to greet them up the stairs, while Lindsey explained about Brenda, and how they’d finished ahead of themselves.

“We can come back later. I can take Stevie to the swings, maybe.”

“Ach, don’t be daft.”

Eric ushered her inside, but then he stood with her, awkward in the hallway, like he didn’t know what to do next.

“I meant tae have everythin ready. Tea set out.”

He was still smiling, but like he was embarrassed now: not the best host, creases deep in his old brow.

“It’s just that I was in the middle ae somethin, aye?”

Eric gestured though the living-room doorway, to a table thing by the window, and he told her:

“I get caught up sometimes.”

Brenda had been careful to let Lindsey know how her brother sat and drew most Tuesdays, while she cleaned around him.
You mustn’t mind if he does that when we visit. He doesnae mean it tae be rude
. So even if it felt like a strange thing to do, Lindsey told him:

“I’ll give the rooms a hoover while you get yourself sorted. I promised Brenda I’d do that anyhow.”

She watched him go back into the living room while she hung up her parka, and she saw how the table thing was like a low cupboard, sort of, but folded open so the lid made a desk, and Eric had paper and pencils laid out. Lindsey had guessed he was in the middle of a drawing, but she couldn’t see what it was of. The old man had sat down with his back to her, and now he was bent over the papers; only just back at his desk, and already caught up again. Stevie was pressed against her leg, tugging at her, wanting to go and look, but Lindsey put a hand to his head:
in a minute, not just yet
. She helped him out of his coat sleeves, and then she couldn’t think what else to do, except get on with cleaning.

Eric’s house had a smell, but not a bad one, just like fags and the yellow soap he kept in the toilet. His flat was a first floor and dark at the back, and Stevie stuck close to Lindsey through the rooms, eyes wide, like he’d never seen anything like it.

The place wasn’t a mess, not exactly, but it was rammed full of stuff: prints on the walls and in cardboard boxes on the floor, photos cut out of magazines and folded-over newspaper pages, all held together in bundles by rubber bands and bulldog clips. Everything looked ancient: the clock on the sideboard in the hallway, and the faded postcards that Lindsey picked up and squinted at while she dusted. Views of old Glasgow and the shipyards, and paintings by artists called Old Masters.

There were more boxes on the living-room shelves, and rows and rows of paper files, and Lindsey was quiet about her wiping and straightening, especially now they were in the same room as Eric.

The old man had books in there, his own and from the library, that were left about the place in piles, on the low table,
the sofa arms and on the chairs. They were books of paintings mostly: art books, wide and heavy, and Lindsey had to lift them to get at the surfaces. She made two neat stacks on the rug by the bar fire, and Stevie crouched down next to them while she worked. He leafed through the pages, looking at all the olden days people with the paint gone cracked across their faces; swan-necked ladies with babies, bowls of fruit, fish on plates, dead birds. It seemed like Stevie could look as much as he wanted, Eric didn’t take much notice.

It was getting dark by that time, the afternoon fading beyond the windows, and when the old man clicked on his desk lamp, Lindsey could see the circle of carpet under the table, covered with pencil shavings, and fag ash too, because Eric smoked while he drew, blowing the ash off that fell on the paper. Lindsey saw him blow when there was nothing there, like he was trying to get the picture clear, see it better. The lamplight shone off the page, so she still couldn’t see what he was drawing, but it seemed like Eric didn’t use an ashtray anyhow, just whatever he had to hand: a mug or a plate, or just the corner of his desk. Between smokes, he stood the cigarettes up on their filters, on the wooden top, and the dog-ends of the ones he’d forgotten had sprouted up there like mushrooms. But Lindsey didn’t like to sweep them off in case she disturbed him, so she just watched him, hoping he didn’t feel watched, lost in his work, bent over his desk.

There were twenty-odd wooden compartments in there. One for Eric’s pencils and the folding knife he used to sharpen them, one stuffed with what looked like old electric bills and unfranked stamps on torn envelope corners. The rest held rolls and rolls and rolls of what must be his pictures.

Eric stopped drawing at five. On the dot, like that was his habit. He brewed some tea, and called Stevie into the kitchen; Lindsey heard him, offering the biscuit tin.

“Tell your Maw tae down tools, wid you.”

She packed away the dusters, and Eric was back at his desk by the time Stevie pulled her into the big room, but the old man had pushed his chair to one side, so when they sat on the sofa it was like they were sitting with him.

Lindsey’s eyes went straight to Eric’s drawings, still laid out on his desk; Stevie’s did too, and the old man saw them looking.

“My day’s work.”

He smiled, lifting his mug, like to toast his pictures.

“Nothin is better for a man than that he should eat an drink, an that his soul should enjoy good in his labour.”

Lindsey blinked a bit at the phrasing: she didn’t know if that was a joke, or if she’d maybe heard those words before. But anyhow, Eric seemed pleased with what he’d drawn, so she asked him: