by Ross Raisin
‘Right, we off, well?’
Once onto the street the two apprentices get making their way briskly through the crisp cool morning toward the yard. They go over Saturday’s match again, a couple of times, but most of the way they walk without talking. The roads are near deserted. A few cars. The old boy from their block, coming back with his dog. They give him a nod.
It wasn’t always like this, course. Their fathers and their grandfathers have shown them enough photographs – photographs there’s plenty of in the grand crumbling library they are walking past now – how it used to be. These same streets a hundred years ago, sixty, forty even, mobbed with hundreds of workers starting out for the day shift. Tired and quiet, like this pair, getting moving. The noise of boots on the road, the hooter about to sound up the way and signal the start of work. The occasional wife in a tenement window in her nightdress, watching her man off, and him finding his way into his own team, grouping up as they move on – riveters, caulkers, blacksmiths, the welders clear visible in their spotted hats and their leathers, boilermakers, platers – the whole black squad marching on up the road. And at the back, the apprentices, pishing about.
A different story the now. Two lads in blue overalls walking through the empty streets like a pair of convicts who’ve just survived the end of the world; passing by the primary school, the park, the red-stone tenements, and the terraces of grey pebble-dash houses with their wee patches of front garden.
One of these, the grass growing longer than its neighbours, has a great flash Saab parked bold as day out the front. Inside, Mick is listening to the brother-in-law snoring loudly through the wall. He’s put them in the boys’ old room, so they will be lying there asleep across the way from each other, the two beds having been pushed years ago as far apart as possible. The sound he’s making, Alan must be on this side closest to himself. If there’d been anywhere else to put them, he’d have put them there, but there wasn’t, simple as that. So they’ll have to put up with it just, staying in a weans’ room. Nothing has changed in there since Robbie was eighteen and he moved to Australia – it’d hardly changed in fact for a long time before that – the opposing walls still covered with football stickers and Blu-Tack scabs, a great worn circle of carpet between the two beds, faded from years of board games and fighting.
He turns over, toward the window. The snoring unrelenting. Christsake. The man can’t keep quiet even when he’s asleep.
Down the stair in the living room, Robbie will be slumbering on the floor with an arm curled around the wife. They are on a pile of stale brown blankets Robbie found from somewhere. No that they two mind. They don’t. They’re fine. On the other side of the room the older brother lying there in his sleeping bag and his legs poking out from the end of the settee. Thinking his thoughts. Thinking his thoughts and keeping the lot of them to himself.
The truth is, it is good of the Highlanders to have come. They could have drove down for the funeral and then been away back to their lochside and their mighty brick stronghold and that would’ve been that, never to be seen again. They don’t have to be here. It is Alan’s choice that they are. That’s obvious enough, the way she pinpricks around the house. The peeved squeezed eyeballs every time she gets inspecting a piece of cutlery or a glass out the cupboard. Go on, well, Lynn, what is it ye think, eh? Because ye’re no making it quite clear enough with the subtle facial movements there. Ye think it’s a dump, eh? Well go on, then, and get to fuck why don’t ye?
The snoring has stopped. For a few minutes, the house is peaceful. A thin shaft of light is through the curtains, falling on the carpet at the bottom of the bed. After a while though, the snoring starts up again, quiet at first, then gaining force. See another way you could look at it: he’s retired a long while the now, so an event like this isn’t exactly getting in the way of things for them. They can make space for times like this. Births, deaths, the graduation of the miraculous son, no able sadly to make it yesterday because he’s over in America, making his millions, how lovely for him.
As well, their summer holiday is by. A trip to France this year, cycling round the vineyards and taking photos of each other in food markets examining the local sausagemeats. He shouldn’t be so hard on them. It can’t be easy of course for the brother-in-law either, let’s no forget, the responsibility he’s got to shoulder. The responsibility he’s aye got to shoulder.
Mick gets out of bed. It’s early still and everyone else will be asleep, but he goes in the bathroom to wash his face, puts on a short-sleeve shirt and trousers, and steps down to the kitchen. He checks in the cupboard to see if there’s any bread left, but it’s been finished, so he closes the cupboard door and sits down at the table, looking out the window, where a wee disappointed sparrow is hopping about the grass wondering how there’s nay food put out for him these days.
So this is grief, well. Sat at the kitchen table with all your joys and your miseries sleeping and snoring about you and you sat there wondering what to do for your breakfast. Maybe it’s by, maybe that’s it, he’s gone through ten months already and the moment when she’s dead actually marks the end of it because she’s gone now, she’s no laid there dying in front of him one day to the next. It’s over. He’d greeted back then, alright, when they’d been told. On his own, or the pair of them together sat clutching to each other at this same table. That day the doctor phoned them up and asked could they both please come in to see him. The X-ray results were returned. It wasn’t her back. Pleural mesothelioma. A total whiteout of her left lung. A year, maybe, at the most. He closes the eyes and tries picturing her, her face, before that, while she looked healthy still. It’s a blank but, the brain doesn’t want to go there, so he sits with the eyes closed just. A moment of peace. You keep on. What else can you do? You keep on.
Down on the floor by the bin he notices a box of cereal. He picks it up, gets himself a bowl and shakes out the last flakes and the sawdust from the bag inside. The Highlanders are going the messages later, they announced last night, so there will be plenty enough food for them all soon enough, even the wee chap outside, given up and flown off the now. It’ll be organic, course, but such is life, eh. Him and the sparrow aren’t complaining.
Above his head, somebody is walking about. He puts the box back by the bin and gets the kettle on, returns to his seat at the table. And again, the same thought that keeps coming back: he is alive. He’s the picture of bloody health sat at the kitchen table. The floor creaks again above his head. And no just him as well, still alive.
That evening they all sit in the living room with the television on, eating the spaghetti Bolognese that Lynn has made. Everybody agrees it is good and tasty, except for Lynn, who says it should have garlic and it should have tomato purée and it should have whatever else in it. She hadn’t thought to get these things when she was in the supermarket. If she’d known there was none in the house she would have bought them. She isn’t acting it there; they’ve bought no end of other unnecessary stuff. Parmesan, wine vinegar, three different kinds of bread. It must have cost a fortune. When they arrived back and got everybody outside helping unload the dozens of carriers from the boot, he and Robbie gave each other a look over the top of the car, the meaning of which was clear enough. How long do they think they’re staying? They then proceeded to organize the putting away of the messages, cheerily deciding what was to go where, chucking out whatever dregs or no-good-enoughs were already on the shelves, as if by buying in all this better class of groceries, the kitchen was now theirs to do with as they wished.
The news is on. They sit watching and eating in quiet. It is the fifth night now Robbie and Jenna have brought through the chairs from the kitchen so they can all be in here, and they are in the habit already of keeping to the same seats. Alan and Lynn take the settee and, opposite, Mick sits between Robbie and his wife, the three of them sat close together like a row of naughty schoolweans sent to the headmaster’s office. Craig is over in the armchair by the window, the head down, concentrating
on his plate.
‘It’s some place now, the shopping centre at Braehead,’ says Alan, setting his empty plate on the carpet in front of him. ‘All new stores since we were last down there.’
The three of them look up and agree.
‘I suppose it will be,’ Mick says. ‘I never go.’
‘It’s a great M&S,’ says Lynn. ‘Two levels, and a decent café. We stopped in for a sandwich when we’d done. And there’s a dry ski slope down there now, I couldn’t believe it. You should go over there and take a look, Mick.’
The weather comes on. It has been record temperatures for August, the guy says, and September is going to continue the same. Mick minds the time Cathy went down to the M&S, and what she’d thought about it, coming home with a single carrier of potatoes and mince. She wasn’t impressed. It’s too bloody expensive, was the verdict.
‘You’ve seen the new apartments at Glasgow Harbour as well, have you?’ Robbie says after a while, looking at Lynn.
‘Yes. You pointed them out, didn’t you, Alan? Very modern. About time they made more use out of all those dead areas along the river.’
‘You think?’ Robbie says, putting in a mouthful of Bolognese.
‘I do,’ Jenna breaks in, likely sensing Robbie’s mood. ‘Better developing than leaving it a wasteland.’
‘There you are, then, Da. You should get one. You could have a wee balcony to sit on and look out over the water.’
Jenna gives Robbie a look, which because they are sat so close is right in Mick’s face.
‘There’s no point leaving it to decay like it has been. Those cranes, and the berths all crumbling. It’s not safe, for one thing. You’re just being a mule, Robbie, you know it.’
He is feeling uncomfortable, these two starting to argue around him. He gets off his seat. Plus he needs to go up and check how much is in his wallet, to give toward the messages. As he leaves, he starts picking up the empty plates from the floor. Jenna is immediately helping him, reaching down for the Highlanders’ plates before he has the chance. Maybe it isn’t on purpose, but you never know. She’s sensitive to things, Jenna; she knows the score.
In the kitchen they stack the plates by the sink. They’re about to turn and go out when she presses her hand gently on top of his on the counter.
‘You’re pretty quiet today, Mick. How are you?’
‘Coping on, I suppose.’
She smiles. ‘It can’t be easy, not when there’s’ – she raises the eyebrows a little – ‘a houseful.’
He feels awkward, their hands touching there like that. Guilty, somehow, daft as it is.
‘You shouldn’t feel afraid to talk to these boys, you know. Even Craig. He’s grieving, that’s why he’s being like he is.’
He tries to smile. She’s a good girl, Jenna. Cathy was aye fond of her. She’s down the line, is what it is. Honest. She’s like Robbie that way, only less of the argle-bargle tendencies.
‘It isnae that simple. He blames me.’
‘He shouldn’t. He’s being selfish.’
‘Aye, well. Maybe.’ He looks away down the corridor. ‘He keeps it inside himself. It was his maw he talked to.’
‘Bulldust. You’re here. And Robbie. He can talk to you.’
She takes her hand away.
‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s see how the party’s going.’
‘Okay. I’ll be through in a moment, I’m going the toilet just.’
He goes upstairs to the bedroom. A ten-pound note, plus a bit of smash, it’s all he’s got on his tail. He can’t offer that. If he gets up early again in the morning, maybe, he can nick out to the cash machine before any the rest of them are up. See what’s in the account, then give Alan his share when he gets back. He’ll tell him later the night that’s what he’s doing.
It’s no exactly cheery, the mood in the living room. They’re all sat there in the same positions, the television noisily on in the corner. It’s like walking into a hospital waiting room, a bunch of edgy strangers pretending they’re interested in the telly adverts – see maybe what he should do is bring in some old magazines for them to have a rummle through, distract themselves with the horoscopes and out-of-date TV listings.
He takes his seat. Looks around the room. Jesus. How long is this going to go on?
Jenna speaks. ‘When are you back at the garage, Craig?’
They all turn to look at him. He keeps his eyes on the television.
‘Don’t know yet. Couple days. Depends how much is booked in.’
‘Will you stay here or go back to your flat?’
‘Go back. Too far to travel in from here.’
She doesn’t push him. That’s clear enough all he’s going to say on the subject, and the room is silent again as they get back to their television watching. A quiz show. Two families in Englandshire competing one against the other for the incredible cash prize. A bald proud uncle with the spotlight on him now, chosen as the family expert on geography matters. A bit of patter with the show host as the countdown appears in the corner of the screen. Are you feeling confident? he gets asked. He is. It’s his favourite category on the Trivial Pursuits at Christmas. Wee smiles along the family row.
It is the television that has become the centre of their movements. Up until yesterday it was Cathy. Her bed on the ward, when it had just been Robbie and Jenna here in the house, and then when she went, the arrival of the Highlanders and all the funeral arrangements to be sorted: undertakers, cemetery, wake spread; GP, register office, council. Now that it’s all finished though, there’s nothing for them to do but stick the TV on. Fact is, if it was to stop working they would be royally fucked. Or go home, maybe. He gives a keek over at Craig. He’s sat with the arms folded, no expression, just staring. Don’t come near me, is what he’s saying. Don’t come near me or I’ll stiffen ye. He needs to get a moment to speak to him, Jenna is right about that. He’ll be away without a word otherwise and then Christ knows what happens after that. Silence, probably.
He has brought it on himself but, he knows it fine well. No like he’s made such a big effort to talk to the boy; ever, actually. All they years of sitting in the living room when Craig’s come round to visit, leaving him and his maw to have their patter in the kitchen. It adds up sooner than you’d think, all that time. You start no to see that she’s the one holding it together, and that without her, what kind of a relationship is there between you? Plus as well the boy as good as thinks that he killed her, which could prove a wee conversational stumbling block.
Alan gets up, asking if anybody is wanting anything from the kitchen. He goes out the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. In a moment – during which the bald uncle gets the spotlight took off him having pure disgraced himself as the family expert on geography matters – Mick follows him. He steps in the lobby just as Lynn is reminding everybody that she had known two of the answers.
Alan is bent inside the fridge. Mick comes in the room and he glances up at him as he pulls out a bottle of wine and sticks it on the counter.
‘Would you like a glass, Mick?’
‘I’m okay, thanks. No much of a wine drinker.’ He stays by the counter, shuffling the great dump of post into more of a tidy pile.
Alan fetches himself a glass from the cupboard, pulls open a drawer for the corkscrew and gets opening his wine. Mick loiters over in the corner. He feels like a bloody houseguest. Alan takes a sip of wine and puts the bottle back in the fridge.
‘You get to many Rangers games these days, Mick?’
‘No much. Cathy being ill, it’s –’
‘No, sorry, I don’t imagine you have.’
He has another drink of his wine. Mick fingers the envelopes. In truth, it’s almost ten years, after Robbie left, since he was going to the games. And as well the season ticket increases. He slots the post in by the mini television. That’s another thing will need seeing to before long. Brown envelopes. Some of these are from the same senders. Council. Housing Association. Her name is s
till on most of them. What happens about that, well? Is it the register office that wires it to all the relevant parties? Your computer tells my computer that such and such is to be wiped from the account. See the way it is with these bastards though, you more likely have to tell them yourself. Ten minutes waiting on the line to tell some poor bored hen in a call centre in East Kilbride that you want to advise a change in circumstances: I’m just ringing up to inform ye that my wife’s died. Duly noted, Mr Little, I’ll log it in the system for you.
Alan is staring away into the dark outside the window, drinking his wine. Then he turns round to him.
‘How’s work these days?’
There’s a genuine unexpected topic of conversation between the two of them.
‘It’s a while since I’ve been driving, actually.’
‘When do you think you might go back?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Soon enough. They said take as long as I want.’
‘That’s good of them.’
‘Well. See they’re no too busy.’
He should have said about the money earlier. Quick and simple.
‘You know, Mick, you mustn’t think that Cathy’s family aren’t here for you. They are. It’s been hard for everybody.’
‘I’m sure it has.’
‘It’s a really tough blow.’ He makes it sound like a post office closure. ‘You know any time you want to come up and stay at ours you’re more than welcome. Have some dinner. Go out on the boat.’
‘Right, thanks.’
Alan is stroking the stem of his wine glass. He turns again to look out at the small crap garden.
‘Look, all this shopping,’ Mick begins. ‘Will ye let me give you something for it?’