by Alan Spence
‘The taxi’s here,’ said Kathleen, tugging his arm.
‘Ah’ll jist give this back tae Tommy,’ he said, holding up the photo. ‘Ah think it’s too precious tae leave lyin here.’
They found Tommy in his own room, rummaging in the cupboard.
‘Ye feelin better noo?’ said Brian.
‘Me?’ said Tommy. ‘Ah’m champion! C’mere an sit doon a minnit. Ah wanty show ye somethin.’
‘We canny wait daddy,’ said Kathleen. ‘We’re jist gawn.’
‘Here’s yer fotie,’ said Brian. ‘Mind ye don’t lose it.’
Tommy shook Brian’s hand. ‘Aw the best,’ he said.
‘Same tae yersel,’ said Brian.
‘Cheerio daddy,’ said Kathleen, hugging him again.
They shouted a quick farewell into the living-room and hurried to the door. Mrs Robertson was in the hall, and before they fled, Kathleen stopped and said ‘Could ye gie ma mammy a wee warnin? Tell er ma daddy’s lookin fur is souvenirs, and that prob’ly means e’ll be givin is party piece any minute.’
‘Right yar hen,’ said Mrs Robertson, opening the door for them. ‘Good luck tae ye.’
Outside on the landing stood Father Boyle, his hand raised to knock the door. Kathleen and Brian almost banged into him as they rushed out. They all stood for a moment, embarrassed, looking at each other.
Then Brian grabbed her hand.
‘Cheerio Father!’ she called back to the priest as they clattered down the stairs.
‘Ur ye comin in Father?’ said Mrs Robertson.
‘Well, I . . .’
‘Mary!’ she shouted. The priest stepped into the hall and she closed the door behind him.
Tommy still sat in his room, looking down at the floor. That was it. She was gone. He looked again at the snapshot he was still holding in his hand, then turned his attention to the cupboard and the cardboard box full of souvenirs from Canada, a heap of mementoes he’d brought back from their holiday. A pair of moccasin slippers, a chipped plaster ashtray shaped like a maple-leaf, a miniature Canadian flag, a doll dressed like a mountie, a stick-on plastic badge and all the other wondrous, useless things he’d gathered. Digging under a jumble of postcards and guide-books and leaflets, coins and maps and assorted tickets, he unearthed what he was looking for. It was an Indian head-dress, made up of red and white feathers, fitted on to a cardboard headband and bordered at the front with brown fur.
‘Yes,’ said Father Boyle, ‘I wanted a wee word with you and Thomas, but it looks as if I’ve chosen an awkward moment. Maybe tomorrow . . .’
‘Yes Father,’ said Mary. ‘Well you see . . .’
‘Oh Mary,’ said Mrs Robertson. ‘Ah nearly forgot. Kathleen says tae tell ye Tommy’s lookin fur is souvenirs.’
‘Aw naw,’ said Mary. ‘No another performance! If ye’d excuse me a minute Father, ah’ll jist . . .’
‘Ah ya bastard!’ Tommy was struggling with the door and the handle had come away. The door thudded twice under his boot then there was a final crash as it swung open and he came stumbling into the room. ‘Wahoo!’ he shouted, brandishing the doorknob. The head-dress was perched on his head, tilted forward so that the fur covered his brow.
‘I think I’ll just be going,’ said Father Boyle, but Tommy came over and grabbed him by the arm.
‘Hello therr Father Boyle,’ he said. ‘Wull ye huv a wee half tae drink ma daughter’s health?’
‘I really must be going,’ said the priest.
‘Ach c’mon,’ said Tommy. ‘Melt yer auld stone face fur wance in yer life!’
‘Godalmighty!’ said Mary, looking in despair at the ceiling.
‘Wish ah had a camera,’ said Kenny. ‘This is jist too much.’
‘Auld Father Gilligan widnae uv said naw,’ said Tommy. ‘He liked is wee dram wi the best ae thum. Fine man e wis tae. Red nose an aw! Jesus, d’ye mind the time e hid the weans up dancin a paddy ba oan the altar, the time the bishop came! Ye shoulda seen aw the frozen faces tut-tuttin away. By Christ they wurnae long in gettin rid ae um efter that.
‘But ah’ll tell you,’ he went on, waving the doorknob at Father Boyle, ‘e wis twice the man you’ll ever be, God rest um.’
The priest was making his way towards the door, Mary behind him, apologising.
‘Perhaps some other time,’ he was saying, ‘when Tommy’s sober.’
‘An anyb’dy that says ma wee lassie’s no right’s a no user!’ shouted Tommy after him. ‘An that goes fur yer church an aw!’
‘C’mon Tommy!’ said Ian, laughing. ‘Do yer Medicine Man! Give us a Rain Dance!’
Tommy straightened his head-dress and stamped a rhythm with his foot, shaking the doorknob like a rattle above his head, howling and patting his pursed lips with his palm.
‘Gawn yersel!’ said Kenny, as some of the others shouted encouragement and took up the rhythm, beating it out on the furniture or clapping their hands.
‘Ah don’t believe it,’ said Ian, as Tommy twisted and shook, waving his arms in the air, getting faster and faster till he finally collapsed, exhausted, face down on to the couch, and his head-dress dropped to the floor, a few of the feathers crooked and bashed.
Tommy was still lying there, huddled, dead to it all, long after everyone had gone home. Only Mary still sat, thinking she should tidy up the debris left from the party, but feeling engulfed by it, and unable to move.
*
‘The tea’ll be ready in a minute,’ said Kathleen. ‘Ah’m jist lettin it mask.’
‘Great,’ said Brian, who was busy filling the paraffin stove.
She took a joss-stick from the packet and lit it, blowing out the flame and watching it smoulder and glow. She placed it in the brass holder on the mantelpiece, watched the smoke curl and rise past the wooden image of Shiva that Brian had bought at the Barrows, Shiva with his four arms, his fire and his drum, dancing in a circle of flame.
She went to the window and looked out. It had begun to rain again and it was just beginning to get dark. A few people were passing on their way home from work. She could hear, faintly, the stream of traffic from Great Western Road. Through a gap between two gable ends opposite she could see the shapes of trees in the park, branches dark against the sky. The streetlamps went on then. She could see five or six, reaching to the end of the street. She thought of them going on all over Glasgow, a linked network of lights, strung across the city, and everywhere people coming home.
She could smell the incense now, the fragrance of sandalwood permeating the room, and with it the warm smell of paraffin burning. The tea was brewing. The stove was lit.
Looking down below, outside the close, where they’d stepped from the taxi, she could still make out a few tiny specks of colour, bright flakes of confetti, scattered on the pavement, wet by the rain.
The Palace
The first touch of his feet on the cold floor as he swung out of bed had set him coughing, fumbling for his matches and the last of his cigarettes.
At last it was Friday again, his day for signing on at the labour exchange. This week he had managed well. The last of his money had gone the night before, into the meter for the fire and light in his room. He had made it through another week, and sometimes he felt that was miracle enough to be grateful for.
The face that looked back at him from the mirror as he shaved was old and tired. Even he could see that now. He suddenly remembered a habit of his that had always annoyed his wife. Any time he’d be making plans or arrangements, even for the following day, he would say ‘If God spares me.’ These days he probably said it more often than ever and meant it more seriously. At times it was a wonder to him that he survived from one week to the next. He had been out of work now since the summer, almost eight months. Somewhere in him he still felt ashamed to be signing on and taking money, but there was no other way. Jobs were scarce, he had no special skill, and now he was getting old. So on it went, week after week. God had spared him. Sometimes he wondered why.
But to
day was different. Today he would have some money and the world would be brighter. It was like pay-day. Even though he had no job, nothing to fill his days, the weekend still felt special.
He smiled at the mirror as he scraped away with the razor. When his face was like that, covered with lather, his lips showing through, he always thought it looked like the white mask of a clown. He remembered thinking the same thing as a child, watching his father shave.
(The slow steady scrape of the open razor on his father’s cheek, the razor that looked like a toy, clutched in that big powerful hand that could wield the blacksmith’s hammer with such ease. The way the blade took the soap from his face in clean straight strokes. Like making a path in the snow with the edge of a slate. His father contorting his face as he peered into the mirror, the easier to shave the awkward contours; suddenly aware that he was watching and turning towards him, the clown’s mask screwed up, grotesque. His father, chuckling to himself. ‘Aye well,’ he’d said, ‘ye’ll be shavin yersel soon enough.’)
Soon enough.
It was strange that he could remember something like that so clearly. Sometimes things that had happened thirty or forty years ago were just as clear, just as real to him as anything going on now. He was always remembering; things were forever repeating themselves; forever reminding him of something else. Sometimes he had the strangest of feelings he couldn’t explain, that he had always been living through the same day. He had grown up, married, become a father. His wife had died, his son had moved away. It all seemed like a dream. Something in him was dreaming it; something had watched it all going on and was watching still. He had gone through these changes, he was growing old, but he was still the same person he had always been.
With a click the light went out and the fire died. The money in the meter had run out.
‘Ach!’ he said, setting down his razor. He pulled open the curtains. Outside it was still dark. One or two lights were on across the road. A man was passing on his way to work, or perhaps coming home from nightshift. Overnight there had been a light fall of snow and it lay on the street, on the roofs of parked cars, adding its silence to the early morning still.
He carried on shaving, in the dark, then he finished dressing, put on his coat and scarf for warmth, and sat down to wait. Nobody else in the house would be up for another half-hour or so.
Some of his neighbours he had never even seen. Sometimes he wondered about all the different people who had lived here. He liked to imagine the way it must have been in Victorian times. That was what the street always brought to mind; the terrace houses, the faded elegance. He could imagine the great dark rooms, the old solid furniture, heavy velvet drapes. He could almost smell the polish, hear the discreet chime of a clock, the faint sound of a piano from an upstairs room. The facade was unchanged, the only signs of passing time the crumbling paintwork, the concrete slabs where a garden had been, the rows of names on every door, some typewritten, some carefully inked, others roughly scribbled, and each name with its own bell. It wasn’t the same as having his own place, but in some ways he liked it as well as anywhere he’d ever lived. The area still had a sedateness and tranquillity that pleased him. He could walk down to Great Western Road and along to the Botanic Gardens, or in the other direction, to Kelvingrove. It was a strange irony, now that he was poorer than he had been in years, to be living here in the West End. It was true that he could probably find somewhere cheaper, in Maryhill perhaps, or back in Govan, but he justified it to himself that the saving would be slight. Living here seemed less of a defeat than moving back to the tenements. He could never bring himself to go back to Govan now. He had never been too fond of it, but now it was worse. It was not even the place he remembered. Half of it had been pulled down. The life had gone out of it.
Living here he knew was only a transition. The names on the outside door were always changing. But then sometimes, looking back, he felt his whole life had been a transition. All the years he’d spent in Govan, thinking some day there would be something better. And yet in the years since he’d moved from there, things in many ways had got worse. There had been the move out to the Nitshill scheme. The house had been decent enough. It had even had a small garden. He remembered the first summer out there, evenings painting the garden fence, planning what he would grow. But gradually the bleakness had taken hold of him. The place had no heart. By the time he left, his garden was overgrown, the fence daubed with gang-slogans.
Since then he had lived in a succession of furnished rooms. He had been made redundant and laid off work. And still, through it, the same feeling had persisted, keeping him going, the feeling that it would all pass. Once he was over this spot of bother. Once this year was out. If only he could get through this week. If he could just survive today . . .
Increasingly lately his memories had been of his childhood, isolated bits and scraps, vivid in their clarity, with no apparent shape or meaning. He had grown up in Kinning Park. That was where he had lived until he had married and moved down the road to Govan. From one room-and-kitchen to another. But occasionally he remembered even further back than that, back to his earliest childhood, to Campbeltown where he was born. He had only lived there until he was five or six. Then the shipyard had closed down and they’d moved to Glasgow so that his father could find work.
Often he had thought of going back there, to Campbeltown. It would be a good place to retire to, to live out his old age. But retire from what? Unskilled and unemployed. He saw the humour of it and he smiled. But there was a sadness in it. The thought of ending his days in this dingy furnished room.
The rooms had been divided so that they could be let out to more people, so his was really only half a room, oblong instead of square, half a bay-window at one end. The circular cornice-work on the ceiling, round what had once been the central light-fitting, was cut in two by the partition so only half of it was in his room, the other half next door. For some reason that had annoyed him. He wanted to look up and see it whole. He thought it reminded him of something, but he didn’t know what.
Next door an alarm rang itself out and he heard his neighbours stirring. The partition was thin and he could hear their every movement. The man was about thirty, the girl a little younger. They both worked on the buses. That was all he knew about them, though at night, if they were in, he could hear their talk, their laughing, their quarrels, sometimes even their lovemaking.
Soon their radio would go on. He would be glad of that, raucous though it was. It didn’t matter what the music was. The noise was enough. It was some small comfort in itself. He stretched himself and shivered. It was growing lighter. He could make out more clearly the objects in the room. A chair. A table. A wardrobe. A bed. There was no space for more.
Through the thin wall he heard the sound of a kettle being filled, then a click and the blare of the radio; jingles, the disc jockey’s babble; the raised voices of his neighbours above it.
SO THERE I WAS UP IN THE OLD BBC CANTEEN WITH ME CUPPA TAR I MEAN CHAR HA HA HA
‘Whit’s that yer sayin?’
AN SHE JUST WALKS RIGHT PAST AND OUT THE DOOR WITH IT BEFORE I CAN SAY JACK ROBINSON SO I THOUGHT T’MESELF AH WELL THERE YOU GO THAT’S LIFE
‘Ther’s eggs . . . an beans.’
TOO RIGHT Y’KNOW ANYWAY
‘Sausages.’
SO AT TWENNY FOUR PAST THE HOUR OF EIGHT WHAT’S IT GONNA BE FOR THE NEXT
‘Ye kin say whit ye like, ah mean ye kin see aw kinds, long wans an short wans an fat wans an skinny wans but ye never see the wan yer lookin fur.’
MORE MUSIC MORE MUSIC MORE MUSIC
‘When it comes right doon tae it, whit uv ye goat? Nothin!’
HA HA HA HA HA
‘Many eggs ur ye wantin?’
SO LET’S GO WITH A GOLDEN OLDIE A BLAST FROM THE PAST A RAVE FROM THE GRAVE
LET ME TAKE YOU DOWN
COS AH’M GOING TO
STRAWBERRY FIELDS
NOTHING IS REAL
Soon it would be
light enough and he would read and re-read last night’s paper until it was time to go.
As always, he arrived at the labour exchange about ten minutes early, and he joined the queue of waiting men. The woman behind the counter avoided looking at them. She moved the indexed box of cards an inch to the left, removed the plastic cap of her ball-point pen, adjusted her spectacles on her nose, drummed with her fingers, looked at her watch. Nobody was allowed to sign so much as a minute before the allotted time. The man before him in the queue turned to him and shook his head.
‘Ah don’t know!’ said the man.
‘Thur no in a hurry anywey,’ he replied.
The woman had a brittle, jerky manner, a permanent disdainful expression on her face, as if a particularly unpleasant smell was being wafted towards her by the draught that blew in through the swing-doors.
He rubbed his hands together, trying to generate a little warmth.
‘Cauld aw the same, intit,’ he said.
‘Freezin,’ said the man. ‘It’s gettin worse aw the time.’
‘Yer right therr,’ he said. ‘Perishin.’
By this time, after all the months of signing on, some of the faces in the queue were familiar to him. But it didn’t go much deeper than that. A nod. A gruff word. A shared complaint against this brusque attitude or that bland face behind the desk with its barricade of filing-cards. And yet there was something else they shared, something unspoken that went beyond resentment, and at the back of it was a laugh. The man he was talking to had once summed it up. ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘If ye canny beat them an ye canny join them, ye might as well fuckin use them!’
The man was short and stocky-built, redfaced with a harsh rusty bark of a voice that always sounded as if he needed to cough. He always wore a donkey-jacket and old baggy denims, his cap pulled down over his brow.