‘So whit? He did the joab the only wey he kent. He did a joab a’ richt. Ye mind the fight wi’ Angus because he went tae work in Number Eicht? He wis richt aboot that. Nae won’er he wis liked. Every time he went tae the pit-face he turned up as a man. Nothin’ less.’
‘That’s great,’ Conn said. ‘So that’s it feenished. Jist like that.’
‘That’s him feenished,’ Mick said. ‘We’re no’ feenished. This is jist a beginnin.’ Folk like ma feyther wur oor Winter Palace.’
‘Whit does that mean?’
‘Ah’ll tell ye sometime. Ye see, this wis us trying it wan wey. An’ it didny work. We came an’ stood in a line wi’ oor bunnets oot. An’ a’ we goat wis a bunnetfu’ o’ air. Ah mean, we’ve been waitin’ in a queue for hunners o’ year. An’ by the time we get tae the front, the shoap’s shut. So whit dae ye dae?’
Conn said nothing, watching him.
‘Ye hiv tae brek in. Because ye ken there’s grub in there a’ richt. They’ll jist no’ gi’e ye it. Whit we’re daein’ the noo is hingin’ aboot ootside, tryin’ tae make up oor minds. Because it’s no’ legal tae brek in. An’ that worries folk. But whit’s legal? Legal is whit they need tae keep whit they’ve goat. We hiv tae brek in. An’ we hiv tae batter onybody that gets in oor road oot o’ existence.’
Conn studied his brother. Watching him, he understood that out of all the talk that had raged for so long in this house Mick’s voice had emerged as the strongest. It was a fact which surprised him. Conn remembered how he had almost patronised Mick as somebody on the edge of things, his presence frequently all but erased. But his silence had been a gathering of speech. His stillness had been making bombs. He was so sure. Conn was impressed.
Yet Conn was also disturbed and suspicious of him. What Mick said was too simple. What had been a dialogue had turned into a pronouncement. It was as if Mick hadn’t heard a lot of what had happened, had just missed out so much that was important – their father’s respect for people, no matter who they were, their mother’s patient persistence, the fact that they had only been able to reach this place because they had all loved one another. But the only voice left that could thaw Mick’s icy certainty back into argument was Conn’s own. He couldn’t find it.
‘Naw,’ he said. ‘Naw. That’s too easy.’ He hesitated and said the only thing he could think of. That’s only hauf an answer. Ye ken whit Ah think, Mick? Ah think maybe whit’s happened tae you his made it easier. It maybe makes life easier only hivin’ wan airm.’
‘Maybe,’ Mick said, and smiled. ‘But no’ as easy as it is bein’ in twa minds. Like you, Conn. That wey ye never hiv tae make wan o’ them up.’
‘But maist folk mean weel.’
‘Ah’m no’ fussy whit they mean. Jist whit they dae. An’ nae rulin’ cless ever gave its power awa’. It has tae be ta’en. Always.’
‘Naw. Ah don’t want tae smash folk. Ah jist want them tae see hoo guid folk like ma feyther were. Tae gi’e us room tae leeve.’
‘Ye use yer hert like a hearse, Conn. Fur collectin’ the deid. As long as the wans that ruined them take aff their hats, ye’re happy. Ye should be mountin’ the pavement tae rin the bastards doon.’
Mick’s stare was uncomfortable. It had the same fire as his father’s look but under steady control. Conn turned towards the window. He spoke without looking round.
‘Ah canny hate folk the wey you dae, Mick.’
‘Well, ye’d better learn. Tae hate a certain type o’ folk.’
‘Onywey. Whit can you dae aboot it?’
‘Ah’ve jined the Communist Party.’
‘When?’
‘A wee while ago.’
‘But ye didny tell onybody?’ Conn turned back towards him.
‘Who wis there tae tell? Ma mither wid jist worry. She’s hud enough worry. Whit’s it tae Kathleen? She’s goat the weans tae contend wi’. Angus widny ken the difference between the Communist Party an’ the Freemasons.’
‘Why are ye tellin’ me then?’
Conn knew the answer in just looking at Mick. He knew that this was what survived of his family – this new division, this argument between Mick and himself. It was the legacy they shared. He heard his brother confirm it.
‘Because you an’ me’s whit’s left o’ ma feyther, Conn. It’s between you an’ me. Me wi’ wan airm an’ you in twa minds, eh?’
16
It was more than a year after Tam Docherty’s death that somebody said, ‘Ah hear somebody doon the Foregate’s been pestered wi’ a Peepin’ Tom.’
He was among the men at the corner. It was late at night, cold. Most had gone home. Only a few remained against the wall of the Scotia. Jacket collars were up, hands were in pockets.
‘Lucky fur him Tam Docherty’s deid,’ Andra Crawford said.
They laughed, reflecting.
‘Aye,’ Tadger said, the fag bobbing in his mouth as he talked past it. ‘Ye mind o’ yon? Dear oh dear. Ah’ve seen angry men. But yon wis different.’
Slowly, as they stood shrugging off the night wind, they began to realise that they had a clear view of Tam. Their sense of him had hardened. They began to talk themselves towards it.
‘Jesus Christ. A hellu’ a man fur the size o’ ‘im.’
‘Aye.’
‘Aye.’
‘Mind ye,’ Dan Melville said. ‘Ah don’t think he wis as hard as they said he wis.’
‘Aye, that’ll be richt,’ Tadger said. ‘He wis harder.’
‘Naw. Listen, Tadger ...’
‘Lusten nothin’. Talk comes easy. If the wee man walked doon that street the noo, you wid ken. The wee cauld bit in the pit o’ yer stomach.’
‘He wis a’ hert.’
‘Aye. Ask Hammy Mathieson.’
They began to go over stories about him. Tadger told about the hand-wrestling match with Angus. Dan Melville talked about the time Tam had come looking for him. ‘No’ again,’ Dan said. ‘No’ if Ah’d had a gun.’ Somebody told of money given to him by Tam to get a drink. Somebody mentioned how he had dealt with the priest. Tadger said how much Tam had loved weans. Andra Crawford related for the first time in his life what he had overheard on the stairs at Tam’s mother’s wake.
They were the right men to judge him – his peers. They knew the hardness of his experience, because it was theirs too. They could appreciate what he had contrived to make of it. With their words they sketched out some sense of a life built out of all those small moments. Only they could come near to appreciating the architecture of it, its monumental quality. They grew excessive.
‘A hert like a bell.’
‘Tae him his wife wis the only wumman in the world.’
‘Ye had tae come tae the line wi’ that wee man. Don’t worry aboot it. Nae shite from naebudy. Nut accepted.’
‘He died wi’ his balls on.’
Their talk was as much a definition of themselves as it was of Tam. Normally taut with understatement, they loved to be given licence to be generous, to inhabit hyperbole. Tam had given them that chance. They felt the gratitude always owed to those who enlarge our sense of ourselves. When they contemplated Tam Docherty, he helped them to define themselves.
‘An awesome wee man,’ Andra Crawford said.
There were noddings. Tadger brooded, finding the exact words towards which the mood of their talking had inspired him. When he spoke, his voice was formal, almost polite, like an official statement.
‘He wis only five foot fower. But when yer hert goes fae yer heid tae yer taes, that’s a lot o’ hert.’
One of them rubbed his hands together against the cold. Their silence was agreement, a vision achieved. They had found his epitaph.
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