Leanne’s father would hold his mother’s hand. ‘I’m here now,’ he would whisper. ‘I’m here now,’ and tears glistened in his eyes.
Leanne felt tears gather in her own eyes as emotions tumbled within her. She was concerned for Kyoul, but she also felt guilty. She’d told her parents she would study today, when in reality she intended to go out and meet Kyoul. She couldn’t help herself, he was so kind and gentle. And, although a few years older than her, in some ways more vulnerable.
The city might have overwhelmed him if he had not met her so soon after his arrival. She’d taken him about, partly to get him orientated but also to show off her city – the shops, the cafés, the riverside, the grand buildings, the museums and galleries. He was someone who shared her interests. He’d point out things that she hadn’t noticed about Glasgow. The colour of the skies, the shape of clouds, the light – he made her appreciate the spring sunsets that each evening turned the skyline into an unfolding drama.
She’d looked out for him, taught him so many things. How to ask for what he wanted when shopping. How to count money so that he didn’t get cheated in his change. How to use the transport system. One Saturday they’d whizzed round and round for hours on the crazy little trains in the underground, doing the circle over and over until he knew all the subway stations. The way he said their names, his tongue layering the syllables with different emphasis, made it sound like a poem. He’d been fascinated that you could stay on as long as you wanted, endlessly travelling round under the city. Eventually, when she’d insisted they leave, he got to his feet, stood in front of her, swaying as the carriages moved, and recited all the station names without pausing.
‘Cess-nock, St E-noch,
St George’s Cross!
Par-tick, Kin-ning Park,
Shields Road!
Kelvin-hall, Kelvin-bridge,
Bu-chan-an Street!
Hill-head, Cow-cadd-ens,
Ibrox!
West Street, Bridge Street,
Govan!’
Kyoul finished with a great flourish of his arms and bowed low before her.
‘The end!’
An old man sitting opposite solemnly applauded, and the two of them collapsed together, giggling.
Kyoul was quick to learn and fun to be with, and every morning she got up Leanne was happy with the joy of living. It was a month before he told her he was an unregistered asylum seeker. He refused to use the word ‘illegal’, said that there was no such thing. Britain had signed an agreement to help refugees, which meant that anyone had a right to seek safety here. He told her what country he came from. She knew then, without him having to say it, that he was a Muslim. Far from being angry with him, as he’d expected, she was frantic with worry. How did he live? What did he eat? Where did he go at night?
He found casual work, usually in the early morning at one of the big markets. He slept in homeless shelters or hostels. But he’d no friends. Friends had let him down in the past. But he trusted her. They met sometimes for only half an hour in the early evening. She’d invent a reason that her parents would believe for her being out on her own or late home from school. They thought she did an awful lot of studying in the Mitchell Library. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them any part of the truth.
For she knew that he would not fit in with her parents’ future hopes for her. They’d had to work hard to achieve the wealth they now enjoyed. They expected her to benefit from their sacrifice. The presence of their expectations was in the room with her now. University, good career, marriage, children – she could choose, but . . . her choice was to achieve all that she was capable of. Make the most of herself, enjoy achievement in her life. They wanted the best for her. They loved her.
With her gran so ill she felt there was no one to confide in. She’d never had one special friend to ask what to do. Kyoul was her special friend now. She talked to him of her gran.
‘My grandmother was engaged at sixteen.’ She was teasing him one day when she’d said this.
‘But you are not yet sixteen,’ he chided her.
‘In your culture, don’t women marry even younger?’
He looked at her, his eyes travelling over her face, her body, until she’d blushed. He’d smiled. Cupped her face in his hands. ‘Little Leanne.’ He stroked her cheek.
At that time they hadn’t even kissed.
She loved taking him into the city. They trawled through the St Enoch shopping mall, down Sauchiehall Street into the Buchanan Galleries, through the markets and the expensive boutiques in Princes Square. One day they bought ice-cream cones and ate them wandering in the Botanic Gardens. It was the beginning of May. The warm spring sunshine had brought the residents of the nearby flats out to stroll, sit on the benches, or lie on the grass. Couples chatted, families played games, babies toddled, old people snoozed in the heat. He took her hand as they walked along. It was the most natural thing to do. They’d turned to each other. And kissed. Like that.
Now his whole life and future was in jeopardy.
In the kitchen Leanne laid her head on the table and wept.
He wouldn’t take money from her. He’d found ways to live. The handouts for the homeless, the building sites where he could pick up some work. He could afford enough for the hostels, and he said as summer was coming, he would sleep outside more. So for six weeks they’d lived in this bubble and now it had blurred and was gone. One moment of violence and her happiness had disappeared. When she’d been with him she hadn’t thought of the future long term; it was enough that they were together. Though Kyoul was more watchful. He’d seen the ugly side of humanity close up – had told her briefly of his imprisonment, some of the things he’d endured. So now she would have to be strong and think for him. He needed her. She must work out the best thing to do.
She had to believe that he was alive and going to survive. The boy Graham said that the doctors had attended to him as soon as the ambulance arrived at the emergency department. She herself couldn’t go near the hospital. If she did she might be questioned. Then it wouldn’t take them long to work out that he was an unregistered asylum seeker. It was better to keep it the way it was as long as possible, with him telling them nothing. But surely, there must be some way she could help him.
Leanne took a paper hanky from her bag. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she got up from the table and put on her jacket. She would go into the city today. But not to shop. She had some things she needed to find out.
Chapter 15
‘Come away in. Come away in.’
Graham’s granda was always pleased to see him. And Graham always felt safe and happy in his Granda Reid’s home. He’d visited his grandparents’ house in Bridgebar most every Saturday for as long as he could remember. And when his granny had died he’d kept coming each weekend as he got older. During the football season, Saturday wouldn’t be Saturday without him and his granda being together. Graham hung up his jacket and followed his granda through to the living room.
‘See what I’ve laid out for you.’ From tissue paper lying on the sideboard his granda held up an orange sash edged in purple and fringed with silver. It was a very old sash of the Orange Order. Worn by his granda and his father before him. The old man began to sing softly.
‘It is old but it is beautiful and its colours they are fine,
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne.
My father wore it as a youth in bygone days of yore,
And on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore.
‘It’s the local Walk next week, Graham.’
‘Yes,’ said Graham.
‘It’s on Saturday morning. We can take part together because the Rangers game is not till the Sunday afternoon.’
‘I know, Granda.’
‘Big day for the Lodge. Makes us old yins proud to see the young yins marching. Gives us hope for the future.’
‘You told me that, Granda.’
‘Even more important now
adays as we’re under threat of restrictions.’
Graham nodded.
From under thick white eyebrows Graham’s granda looked at him with eyes that shone with love. Graham smiled back at his granda. He knew that his granda would do anything for him. And Graham didn’t want to let his granda down. The old man would be so disappointed if Graham said he wasn’t prepared to wear the sash and march this year. It didn’t seem so much to agree to: to take part in the Walk next week. But . . . he still hadn’t said yes. His parents hadn’t allowed Graham to enrol in the Juniors, even though his Granda Reid was never done telling Graham’s dad that it was a family tradition. His mum and dad had discussed it with Graham. Although his mum had sometimes taken part in the Walks when she was young, both his parents felt that he should wait until he got older. Then he could make up his own mind if he wanted to join in. This was the year Graham would decide.
‘I’m no forcing you, mind. It’s your decision.’
That’s what Graham’s dad had said. ‘It’s your decision, Graham. You mustn’t always do things to please other people, even if you love them. The big decisions in life have to be made for yourself, by yourself. Take your time. Think it over.’
Graham knew that some people didn’t like the Orange Walks. Usually his mum and dad took him away on holiday at the beginning of July. But he’d seen his granda walk a few times and he could see why people objected to it. Hangers-on turned up and shouted things, mainly anti-Celtic stuff. And despite the Walk having marshals, the swearing and taunting calls persisted. ‘Ignoramuses’, his granda called them. ‘No idea of the proper historical origins of this important tradition. We don’t need eedjits to make our point for us. We walk the highway proudly as we’re entitled.’
Graham’s granda laid the sash carefully in the box on the sideboard and closed the lid. ‘You’ll come to it in your own time,’ he said confidently.
Graham smiled but didn’t look directly at his granda.
‘We’ll assemble at the Lodge next Saturday morning and walk through the city to Bridgebar Park,’ his granda said, as he went through to his tiny kitchen and put some sliced sausage and black pudding under the grill. He was making plans for next weekend. ‘All my pals will come to see you. Ach, there’s nothing like the sound of a flute band. And when you watch them coming up the middle of the road, the noise and the colour, and the banners with their gold tassels and ribbons streaming – it’s magnificent! All the wee juniors done up in their best, with their wee sashes on. Lovely. The lassies look grand and the boys so smart, all of them loyal and true.’ Granda Reid began to hum, We’ll guard old Derry’s Walls, as he made the lunch.
Graham helped him put out some plates and began to butter the bread. For the big Walk in Glasgow at the beginning of July his granda’s relatives and friends came over from Ulster. ‘The gathering of the clans’, his granda called it. For the twelfth of July his granda was one of around fifteen thousand Scots who went over to Northern Ireland to show solidarity with their brothers and sisters across the water. It was all because from way back the Irish wouldn’t stop rebelling against the Crown. Scottish soldiers were sent over to help put down the rebellions. They’d served with the Orange Yeomanry and brought back the Orange Lodge idea when they returned to Scotland. That’s how it had all started. Over the years lots of Ulster Protestants had migrated to Scotland, so now the Orangemen were the oldest and biggest Protestant Fraternity in Scotland.
‘True loyal origins, the Orange Order,’ Granda Reid would say. ‘A sash is the badge of the honest man. That’s what I am. An honest Protestant man, and I’m not afraid to show it. We have to guard against False Doctrine. We march humbly but with dignity. It’s a declaration of loyalty and Protestantism. Those who truly hold with the Bible will recognize the legitimacy of our ways. We testify for the truth. And that’s what it’s all about. The truth.
‘And we’ve the truth of our history to protect as well. We had hard times to defend ourselves in Ulster and here in Scotland. They don’t tell you that, do they? Naw. It’s their stories you hear. Their Famine. Nobody mentions the atrocities we suffered, how the Catholics murdered men, women and children in Portadown on the banks of the Bann. And today, we’ve still to defend ourselves. They’re trying to crush our spirit, but we will not be crushed. We will parade. But there’s no offence intended to anyone, you know.’
Yet Graham’s dad and his mum, who was Granda Reid’s daughter, wouldn’t let Graham take part in the Walks when he was growing up. They’d insisted that he wait until this year and make his own decision.
This year.
Now.
By next week Graham had to decide whether he would walk or not.
Graham smothered his sliced sausage with brown sauce and sat down to eat. The table was at the living-room window and today, because it was the Rangers–Celtic derby, his granda had put up bright-blue curtains and hung out his Ulster and Union flags and bunting, as had most of his neighbours.
‘You’ve got to keep your end up,’ his granda said as he saw Graham looking at the flag. ‘Their places will be covered in green.’
Graham wasn’t going to tell his granda that he knew this was true, that he had seen it this morning with his own eyes. The Garngath. Covered in green and white with the Irish flag prominent. You would have thought it was another country, not another part of the same city.
Chapter 16
While they ate lunch Granda Reid played one of his old football films and gave Graham a running commentary. He often did this before a big match. And, although Graham had seen many of them before, he never tired of watching great football play of the past. With his granda he relived Archie Gemmill’s magic goal in the World Cup Finals in Argentina, when he’d beaten four men with his amazing slalom down the park. It was Gemmill, a Scottish player, who won the goal of that tournament as millions around the world applauded a golden moment of pure genius. But mostly Graham and his granda watched the Rangers team games over and over.
One summer holiday his granda had taken him all the way up to Fife to visit Jim Baxter’s memorial. A special outing to pay tribute to a special footballer. ‘Intelligent player,’ his granda said; ‘gifted . . . and cheeky.’ He laughed. ‘Right cheeky, he was. We’ve had some great players at Ibrox over the years.’
Graham loved Ibrox Park, the Rangers football ground. He’d done the tour many times. Seen the trophy room, the marble staircase and the elegant wood panelling that had come from the old Queen Mary, the liner that was built in the Clydebank shipyards down the river from the park itself. When Rangers played at home, being in the crowd fired him up, all singing together; he enjoyed that sense of belonging. He liked the way the stadium was constructed, sweeping round with the overlapping end, which meant that from his seat he could see the cranes along the Clyde. It was one of the landmarks he looked for when flying home from his holidays every summer.
Graham told his granda about last night’s football, describing how he’d scored the winning goal.
‘Sounds a bit like what Laudrup did at Tannadice when Rangers won the League Championship in nineteen ninety-seven,’ said Granda Reid. ‘Laudrup came steaming up the park and crashed the ball right past the goalie into the back of the net. That one’s a legend. Gave us nine in a row. What a night! We all waited up till two in the morning for the team coming home to Ibrox Park.’
‘Glorious goal,’ agreed Graham, who had seen the video of the celebrations.
‘Came off a cross by Charlie Miller.’
Graham realized, too late, the question his granda was bound to ask.
‘Who supplied you?’ asked the old man. ‘Who set it up for you to score?’
‘A team-mate.’ Graham couldn’t think of any way to avoid the inevitable.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Joe,’ said Graham.
‘His second name?’
‘Flaherty,’ said Graham reluctantly.
‘He’ll be a Roman then?’
Graham shrugged
. ‘Dunno,’ he said.
‘You can bet your boots on it.’ His granda spoke bitterly. ‘They’re everywhere. You can tell by their names if nothing else. Reilly, O’Connell, Doyle. They’re not Scottish names, are they? Incomers. That’s what they are. And see what they’ve done? Corrupted us with their false doctrine. Intermarried and polluted the race. And you’ll notice in a mixed marriage the pressure’s always on us to turn.’
Turn.
Turn. It made Graham think of sour milk. When his granny was alive she would tease him if he was in a bad mood by saying, ‘You’ll turn milk with that look.’
But that wasn’t how it was used in Glasgow by older people.
He’d learned in school that the expression came from an ancient war. It was to do with uniforms and someone turning their coat to show different colours so they could fight on the other side. A turn coat. When Graham’s class had been learning metaphors and similes he’d asked the teacher, ‘What does “to turn” mean?’ There had been a silence and some sniggering. Mr Mackintosh coughed awkwardly and said it was like during the war when someone changed allegiance. But Graham found out later what the rest of the class knew. It was to do with whether you changed from being Protestant to Catholic, whether you changed from being Kirk to going to the Chapel.
Before leaving the house Graham helped his granda set up the television to record the game. It meant that they could watch the re-run and discuss the play afterwards. If things went fairly today Rangers should win. You couldn’t guarantee it though. A biased ref (and there were plenty who favoured the other side) could mean that, despite better play, the match could swing away from them.
‘We’ll get started now, son, and meet up with Big Tam and Sidney and Sadie and the rest.’ His granda handed Graham his jacket and they went out into the street to walk to the game.
And this was when the good feeling began. Setting out through the streets of Bridgebar to meet up with their pals. Every week, walking with them, feeling proud, Granda Reid’s hand on his shoulder. Going to the game, all together, supporting their team. The mighty Glasgow Rangers.
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