Divided City

by Theresa Breslin

  And the people.

  His first day in the city.

  There was a baker’s shop on the corner of George Square. People were going in to buy food on their way to work. Kyoul went over. Stood in front of the window. A middle-aged woman came out of the shop. She glanced back as she saw him staring at the food on display. He’d been amazed at the variety. Trays of pies, fruit slices, cream cakes, buns, pastries, rolls stuffed full of meat, egg, tuna, cheese.

  The woman walked close to him. Her eyes took in his worn shoes. She looked up, examined his face. Then she handed him the plastic carrier with her sandwiches and cake inside. ‘You take that,’ she said. ‘I’ll get myself some more.’

  He hadn’t thanked her. Couldn’t speak. It was at that moment he’d fallen in love with the city.

  And the girl, Leanne, with her face looking up at his. He thought he loved her too. He’d been determined to have no entanglements with anyone. Throughout his long journey he’d learned that he fared better on his own. But from the beginning she’d insisted on helping him. On showing him the city, almost as if she was discovering it for herself. He sensed her loneliness. She wasn’t the kind of girl who went about in a group. Her interests were art and reading and classical music. They had a similarity in personality that brought them closer.

  They rarely met at night. Her parents liked to know who she saw, who she was with. It was an hour stolen after school. In the library, one of the museums or art galleries, shopping on a Saturday, walking in the great greenhouse of the Kibble Palace.

  What was Leanne doing now? he wondered. Was she even thinking of him? She must at least be concerned if she’d sent the boy back to see him in the hospital. But what could she do? He’d seen newspapers, watched television reports, knew the tone of public opinion. The smoothly spinning world had juddered, and never regained its balance. People were on their guard. Suspicion and uncertainty now stalked their lives. Would anyone help him?

  Chapter 27

  ‘So, are you coming for a game of football then?’

  Joe asked Graham the question as they travelled on the bus back into the city centre from the hospital.

  ‘You’ve brought your football gear with you anyway and we might as well get in some extra practice. I said I’d phone my uncle and let him know.’

  ‘I suppose I could,’ said Graham slowly. ‘Who’ll all be there?’

  ‘My Uncle Desmond and some of his mates. They play fives every week. They’re good and they know their stuff.’

  ‘Your Uncle Desmond isn’t Jammy’s dad by any chance?’ said Graham suspiciously.

  ‘No,’ Joe answered truthfully. He didn’t let on that Desmond was really Jammy’s uncle, Jammy’s ma’s brother, and therefore had some of the same loopy traits as all Jammy’s family. ‘Jammy always gets sent to visit his other granny on a Sunday,’ Joe reassured Graham.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Graham. ‘It was an Old Firm match yesterday. Your lot are bound to say something that’ll annoy me.’

  ‘Naw, naw,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll go to my Auntie Kathleen’s to get changed. She lives in one of the new houses near Glasgow Green. Her husband, my Uncle Tommy, supports the Jags and she’s dead against Rangers and Celtic. Says it causes too much trouble.’ Joe didn’t mention Desmond’s actions of yesterday or that, as his granny always had Sunday dinner at his Auntie Kathleen’s, most of the family dropped in to see her, so that by evening time the place would be full of his noisy relatives. ‘Look, we’re not all Ranger-hating, you know,’ he added as Graham didn’t answer.

  ‘No?’ said Graham.

  ‘No,’ said Joe.

  ‘No prejudice against anyone?’

  Joe thought for a moment. He decided that after yesterday he didn’t see himself as the same kind of Celtic supporter as Desmond. ‘It’s not prejudice,’ he said to Graham, ‘when I support my team and you support yours.’

  ‘So you’d say you were open-minded?’ said Graham.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘Supposing I was to tell you that I’m thinking of taking part in an Orange Walk next Saturday morning,’ said Graham. ‘What would you say?’

  ‘I’d say you were having me on,’ said Joe. ‘What would you want to do that for?’

  ‘My granda’s in the Orange Lodge and he wants me to go with him.’

  ‘But it’s a daft thing to do,’ said Joe.

  ‘You’ve got Hibernian marches. I’ll bet you don’t think that’s daft.’

  ‘There’s not as many of them,’ said Joe. ‘But I do think they’re daft. They’re all mental’ – he made a circle with his forefinger next the side of his head – ‘folk that march up and down banging drums.’

  ‘There’s a good reason for ours. We do it to protect a principle,’ said Graham. ‘Everybody’s got the right of free assembly, or should have. That’s why the Orange Walks take place. My granda says his people had to fight to keep their religious freedom. That’s what the Battle of the Boyne was all about. On the twelfth of July in sixteen ninety King Billy won that battle so that everybody could have their own faith and walk where they choose. Your people especially shouldn’t object to someone standing up for what they believe.’

  ‘Well, my dad says it was mainly to do with leaders wanting land and power, and abusing the good faith of ordinary folk,’ said Joe. ‘But through it all your lot made sure that Catholics got nothing. No church, no land, no houses, no jobs, no vote. You didn’t want Catholics to live even.’

  ‘That was ages ago,’ said Graham. ‘People don’t think like that any more.’

  ‘Some people do,’ said Joe. He recalled his granny’s remark to his dad about present-day bigotry. ‘And your Orange Walks don’t help. Why don’t you just practise your religion quietly like everybody else? The Walks bring all the old stuff to the surface. It’s dead offensive to hear people shouting things against you in public.’

  ‘It’s only the hangers-on that do that,’ said Graham. ‘What’s offensive about the Orange Walk itself ?’

  ‘I’ve just told you,’ said Joe. ‘The way you do it sounds as though you’re looking for a fight. You cause trouble marching about the streets dressed up in those stupid colours.’

  ‘Stupid colours?’ said Graham. ‘One of the stripes in your Irish tricolour is orange. And I bet you don’t even know why.’ He waited, and as Joe didn’t reply he went on, ‘It’s to represent the Orange people in Ireland. Chosen by the Irish themselves when they broke away from Britain.’

  ‘No way!’ said Joe. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘My granda,’ said Graham. ‘And it’s true. The Irish flag’s green, white and orange. Green at one end. Orange at the other. And white in the middle as a symbol of peace between the two communities. So Orange men and women are supposed to have proper representation in all of Ireland.’

  ‘That’s the first I’ve ever heard of it,’ said Joe. ‘And I don’t think there’s many people in the Garngath would know that either.’

  ‘Yeh,’ said Graham. ‘That’s another thing. Those flags that were all over the Garngath yesterday. What is that all about?’

  ‘What’s what all about?’ replied Joe tersely.

  ‘You’re in Scotland. Why have you got Irish flags hanging out your windows?’

  ‘It’s part of Celtic’s tradition,’ said Joe. ‘It’s why the football club was founded. To help the Irish poor in the city a hundred years ago. Celtic Football Club represented a community. Even though times have changed we don’t turn our back on our history.’

  ‘But you’re Scottish.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Joe. ‘But roots are important. Why shouldn’t we show where we’re from? Other folk do. Anyway, my dad says we’re all one people. Ireland and Scotland are mixed in with each other. He told me the Scoti were an Irish tribe who came over here and settled. The Scots are actually Irish. See? Anyway, why do you lot wave flags showing the Red Hand of Ulster?’ Joe countered. ‘Of Ulster,’ he repeated. �
��And at Ibrox Park you sing about King Billy on the Boyne in sixteen ninety. What’s that got to do with Scotland?’

  ‘It’s part of the tradition,’ said Graham.

  ‘Well there you go,’ said Joe. ‘You’ve got your traditions and we’ve got ours.’

  Both boys sat in silence until the bus went along Argyle Street into the city centre.

  As they got off Joe nudged Graham. ‘So, are you coming to play football then?’

  Chapter 28

  ‘We need to talk, you and I.’

  Joe’s Aunt Kathleen cornered him as he came out of the upstairs bathroom in her house. ‘Your cousin Bernie phoned me. Said you wanted to tell me something.’

  ‘Uh-uh. Don’t think so,’ said Joe, trying to sidestep his aunt.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Kathleen mimicked him. ‘I do think so.’

  ‘No, really,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t want to tell you anything.’

  Kathleen smiled. ‘But you’re going to, aren’t you? Mystery Man. Bernie says she’s worried that you’re getting into something way over your head.’

  Joe grimaced. ‘It’s nothing. I went to visit someone at the City Hospital today and I’d to ask Bernie to help me find the ward. This person’s in a bit of trouble. I wasn’t involved,’ he continued quickly, as he saw the expression on his aunt’s face. ‘I was only checking that he’s OK for a friend, like. But Bernie made me promise I’d tell another adult or she’d phone my dad.’ Joe gave Kathleen a pleading look. ‘I don’t want my dad bothered, he’s been getting much better recently.’

  ‘Is this “trouble” drug related?’ said Kathleen.

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’d be breaking someone else’s trust if I told you.’

  Kathleen shook her head. ‘I’m not happy, Joe. I need you to tell me more. Bernie wouldn’t have phoned me if she didn’t think it was important. She has her hair done in the salon every month. The stories she tells us of the weirdos in hospitals would curl hair without me using rollers.’ She laughed. ‘And that’s only the staff.’

  ‘There you go then. Rest easy,’ said Joe. ‘Apart from Bernie I never spoke to any of the staff.’

  ‘What’s going on with this person you went to see?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Joe, ‘and that’s the truth. But I tell you what,’ he went on as his aunt began to shake her head again, ‘I’m in the middle of important football training just now. I promise I’ll speak to my dad after our first real game takes place.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘The first leg’s next Sunday. The youth team from Liverpool are coming up here to play Glasgow. I’m hoping to be picked for our team so I need to concentrate for the whole of this week. The coach will tell us who’s been selected at the training on Friday.’

  ‘A week?’ said Kathleen. ‘That’s too long to wait.’

  ‘I don’t want anything to wreck my chances of being on the Glasgow City team. And,’ Joe added, ‘the guy in hospital’s not going anywhere for at least a week.’

  ‘The person whose trust you’d be breaking, are they criminals?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Joe laughed. ‘She’s just a girl.’

  ‘Less of the “just a girl”.’ Kathleen gave Joe a playful skelp on the ear.

  ‘I mean she’s nice . . . gentle.’ Joe looked sideways at his aunt. ‘They’re in love.’

  ‘Awww,’ said Kathleen, ‘now you’ve got me. I’m a sucker for a romance.’ She still didn’t move out of his way. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Religion mostly. Her family.’

  ‘Aw no!’ Kathleen groaned. ‘Tell me about it. When I got married to your Uncle Tommy he refused to become a Catholic. The trouble I had with your granny. She still doesn’t fully trust him – half expects him to up and leave me one day. You’re too young to remember the wedding. The families sat on opposite sides of the hall glowering at each other. Halfway through the night the band began playing Simply the Best. Desmond marched onto the floor and dragged his sister, your Aunt Rita, off because he didn’t want her dancing to a tune that Rangers fans sing. Would you believe it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Joe, thinking of Desmond’s behaviour at yesterday’s game.

  Kathleen regarded Joe for a few moments. ‘You promise you’ll tell your dad next weekend?’

  ‘Aye, OK,’ Joe said reluctantly.

  His Aunt Kathleen took his arm as they went downstairs. ‘You know you’re my favourite nephew, don’t you? Your mum was my best pal at school, so I’ve got to look out for you. Make sure you’re OK. Apart from it being my sacred duty, she had a fearsome temper, your maw. If I let anything bad happen to you she’d come down from Heaven and thump me.’

  ‘Yeh.’ Joe pushed his aunt away laughing, wondering when it had happened that he could share a joke about his ma not being there any more. He looked at his dad’s face as he went into the kitchen. Would he ever be able to laugh about losing her?

  ‘I’m trying to persuade your wee pal here to stay for dinner.’ Joe’s Aunt Rita had befriended Graham, who was wedged between the fridge and the archway leading to the dining part of the main room, trapped by her bulk.

  Graham shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Graham knew that Joe would think he was being snobby, refusing an invitation to stay and eat with his family. But he wasn’t. The smell of cooking in Joe’s Aunt Kathleen’s kitchen smelled better than what would be getting brewed up in his own. But he knew his mum would ask tons of questions if he phoned her. ‘I just can’t,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift when I’m taking Joe home later,’ Joe’s Uncle Tommy spoke up.

  ‘Don’t harass the boy,’ said Kathleen. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘But I do.’ The words came out before Graham could stop them. And he did. Despite being a bit wary of Desmond, whose play was quite physical and whose face, he noticed, had fresh bruises, he’d learned a great deal about collective intelligent play in this afternoon’s conversation, and during the kick-about on Glasgow Green. Joe’s family talked football and Graham enjoyed listening. His own dad was interested in what he did, never failing to ask about his football training, but he was more of a golfer. He could debate on birdies and eagles but couldn’t argue the merits of a defender versus a winger. In Joe’s family they could discuss individual and team skills, plus moments from the great games. Could tell you that it had been a chip back from Morgan that had allowed Jordan to head in the goal that had taken Scotland through to the World Cup Finals in West Germany. They had a grasp of tactics and seemed to know almost as much history as his Granda Reid.

  ‘It’s just that my mum . . .’ Graham faltered. He’d sound like a wimp if he said his mum worried about him.

  ‘I’ll talk to your dad,’ said Joe’s dad. ‘Put your phone number there.’ He gave Graham a pencil and notepad that was lying on the work surface. ‘Use your phone, Kathleen?’

  ‘Sure, Joseph, help yourself.’

  ‘I’ll tell your dad where you are and that we’ll give you a run home to your door in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Dad’ – Joe followed his dad into the hall – ‘see, when you’re talking to Gregory’s dad . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you call him Graham?’

  ‘His dad’s name is Graham?’

  ‘Naw. I don’t know his dad’s name.’

  ‘Why am I calling him Graham then?’

  ‘It’s no him I want you to call Graham.’

  ‘Who do you want me to call Graham?’

  ‘Gregory.’

  ‘Son,’ said Joe’s dad, ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Look,’ Joe snapped. ‘See that boy in there having his ear dinged by Aunt Rita? His name is Graham. But when he’s here we call him Gregory.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We just do. OK?’

  Joe’s dad pursed his lips. ‘OK,’ he said slowly.
‘I think . . .’

  ‘Dad, pay attention! You’ve got to get this right. When Graham is here his name is Gregory. When he’s at home his name is Graham. So when you speak to his dad on the phone you call him Graham. Not his dad, you understand? It’s Gregory you’ll call Graham.’

  Joe returned to the kitchen and his dad picked up the phone. As he began to dial the number Joe’s dad spoke softly to himself.

  ‘Is it any wonder I suffer from mental illness?’

  When he returned to the dining room Joe glanced up with a questioning frown. His dad grinned back.

  ‘Your dad was telling me he’s a dentist,’ he addressed Graham, who was now seated at the dinner table. ‘He said that when he qualified he was with a surgery in the East End before he moved across the city. Turns out it was quite close to Joe’s granny’s hairdressing shop. It’s a small world, isn’t it? It also turns out he must have been at Glasgow University when I was finishing my doctorate.’

  ‘You’re a doctor?’ Graham couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

  There was an awkward pause. Graham was aware everyone was looking at him.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Joe’s dad. ‘I’ve a PhD in political history.’ He smiled at Graham across the table. ‘Help yourself to some potatoes, Gregory.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘That ref yesterday must’ve have been a mason.’