The Burn

events in yer life

Last year a 36 year old guy dropped dead while playing a game of football. Derek knew him a wee bit. They drank in the same pub down near the docks. Quite a nice guy, a lorry driver. He liked Scottish people and once or twice let Derek know he was making a trip north on the off chance he wanted a hitch. Married with three kids. What can ye do? There’s nothing ye can do. Except to stop laying blame on yerself, it’s nonsense, self-indulgent shit; as if ye’re centre of the universe. Probably the guy’s wife had blamed herself; why had she no told him to stay home that Sunday afternoon, any excuse, make him mow the lawn, they coulda gone shopping or something, anything, it wouldni have mattered, it just wouldni have mattered, to stop him collecting the football boots, just to stop him from playing, from going to play.

Fuck.

The phone rang. It was his sister Linda. She was coming round later on to pick up a few things. Will I bring ye in something to eat? she said.

Naw, I’m fine.

Ye sure?

Yeh.

People cared about ye. They looked after ye. Even when they needed looking after themself. It was amazing. What had he ever done to deserve it? Fuck all really. He hadni really done anything.

He turned off the television. He never usually watched it, he had been out the habit for a long time. Watching it in the morning was especially awful; it was only the Scottish accents made it interesting. He felt like going out for a walk but apart from a couple of shops there was nothing to see except houses — houses houses and houses. What was he going to do with his life, that was the thing. Although after Linda went he could go for a pint. But he didni want to, no to that fucking local anyway. Either they stared at ye or they didni so much as look at ye. Twice he had been in. He hadni met one person. Not one. Thank fuck. He felt like phoning Audrey, the girlfriend. She would be at her work but that wouldni matter, he could still talk to her.

He wasnt going to, he just wasnt going to.

What was he doing what was he doing. .

Oh christ, oh fuck sake, oh fuck, fuck fuck, oh fuck. His eyelids had been clenched shut; he relaxed himself, fixed a cushion at the end of the sofa and lay down, then curled up on his side, staring at the gas fire. There were these three things in his life: his old man getting killed; doing the stupid thing at art school; now his mother dying, his mother dead. He was thirty one. He was thirty one and he didnt feel like he was making a good job of his life. He kept getting tearful, he kept getting tearful. But that was alright, that was alright. It was alright. It was just

christ. He got up. He went over to the mirror and looked into it. There was the pad and the pen, he started sketching. He had a bit of a sore head. He wasnt sleeping, he just wasnt sleeping. It was being here, he just wasni comfortable. Too many fucking ghosts. That was the problem, too many ghosts.

Nor were his sockets red rimmed, they were not; the tears just ran like from a tap and he wasni wiping them. There was nothing to convince himself about. Grief. He was not at the con. It was just grief.

He needed a shave. He was not going to shave.

He sketched quickly. There was nothing wrong with his eyes he just was tired, tired. Mum was dead. Never mind she was too young she was dead. She hadni even reached 70 and that was bad and it was unfair. But so what, it had happened. If he had phoned more often. He could have phoned. He coulda kept more in touch. He shoulda kept more in touch. Ye just get out the habit, that’s all, there was nothing really to reproach himself about. It wasni his fault. It wasni anybody’s fault. She had just died. That was that. Everybody was prepared for it. So it wasni a shock. That side of things was fine, there wereni any grumbles, not as such –

— what the fuck does that mean? as such, what does it mean? Ye say these things.

The first real adult experience of death.

Shut the fuck up.

He laid down the pad, continued staring into the mirror. The sockets were not red rimmed. They were not.

He returned to the sofa; switching on the television as he went.

Up until the funeral he had been staying in Plymouth. He had a job there he quite enjoyed. He wrapped it before leaving. Not unusual for him. But he was also needing a break. Necessary in fact. He liked Audrey, he really did, but still and all, he needed to get away. He couldni have brought her anyway. She would have had to go back to work. It woulda been hard for her getting the time. But he coulda asked her. He didnt. He didnt ask her. He didni want her here. He wanted to be on his own. He needed to get here and be on his own. That was how he would handle it. He needed to handle it. He needed to know.

What did he need to know? He needed to know he could make it. He needed to know he was fine. That was it, he just fucking needed to know he was fine.

Because he didni know what he was going to do next. That was the crux. He might even sign on the dole. Or head off somewhere else altogether once the business was sorted out. He was getting sick of Plymouth; he was, he was getting sick of the bloody place. There was a lot of his stuff left in the flat but so what, she would keep it for him. Or else just dump it. What did it fucking matter. It didni fucking matter at all; it was just junk; all the stuff he had, it was just junk, fucking junk.

Ah mum. Mum mum. A weeish sort of woman with a surprised look on her face. No wonder, no bloody wonder. He wiped at the wetness round his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand.

Of course there were all these memories everywhere. A whole stack of things she had kept. When he saw them it was her he was seeing, because it was her had kept them. Although the actual things came from other folk they were hers. Ach but they wereni, no really. They were just there. They were just there waiting for somebody, somebody like him, family, just to come along and see them — he was the ideal person. One or two to do with the old man himself. Not just photos but mementoes, his Royal Marine bunnet and belt; some other stuff from Burma and places, medals. He had even forgotten dad was in the Royal Marines. The stuff lay in a cardboard suitcase. There wasni much but christ it was good, poor old bastard — well he wasni even old at all christ almighty he was young, fifty-four, getting killed outright, a tragedy, but there you are, life’s full of them.

Funny that was what he remembered, the surprised look on her face. It was definitely from way back. The world did things to ye. The world just did things to ye. It killed yer husband. Yer son went away. But there were still the sisters. They had all stayed.

Fuck.

He made a cup of tea. All this wallowing. He needed to eat as well. He shoulda let Linda fix it for him.

Still a reasonable-sized lump of cheese in the fridge. He had been eating his way through the stuff in the pantry, all the tins. That would have pleased mum anyway, the lack of waste. O christ she wouldni have fucking cared, known, known or cared, just nothing, nothing, just surprise, surprise surprise surfuckingprise, my god.

He had been rooting about the house. Looking in cupboards and drawers. He hadni done it for years so it was all a bit weird. A lot of his own stuff was there as well. Christ! He kept finding these ‘things’. An armband with all his badges from the Boys’ Brigade, the B.B. — or the B.B.’s as Mrs Cassidy used to call it, the auld next door neighbour, a Catholic. The B.B.’s. And some lassies at school. The B.B.’s! They just did it to annoy you.

And the bible.

Bible. What does ‘bible’ mean? He got it for regular attendance. That was him as a boy, sure and steadfast, safe and sorry, a slight lack in imagination. Rubbish, he wasni like that at all. Then the photos from primary school. All the faces. Poor wee bastards. From another world. Probably half of them would still be staying roundabout here. Never having went anywhere. Never having really done fuck all, no even to look back on and tell their kids. But what had he done? That’s the problem with memories, nostalgia, sentimentality, ye end up on a downer because of yer own life.

Three of his pictures lay propped against the back wall of the walk-in press. Glazed efforts. He knew they would be here. They were amazing. He used to be the Great White Hope of the family. Being the only male was the major part of that of course. He painted them early on at secondary school, two portraits and a landscape, part of his portfolio. Where was the fucking rest of it? At the bottom of some dusty cupboard probably, or else shredded.

They were bloody good as well. Christ. Mum and dad were really chuffed when he showed them. The landscape especially was good. A view from the bedroom window. He did it a few times at different ages; it was a nice thing with a garden fence, all these pointed stakes, all different sizes, all individuated. The guy it belonged to had painted the top bits red and the bottom bits white and they always looked really good against the sharp cut hedges. Mr Fleming was his name. Christ, Mr Fleming. Him and dad were in the church bowling club or something. Poor old bastard, he hated a ball landing in his garden. Boys playing ‘rowdy’ games outside in the street, that kind of stuff, it really pissed him off. What was he doing now? The fence had gone. But probably he was still alive and kicking. Crabbit auld bastards like that, they usually lived to a hundred.

But it was nice seeing them again; rediscovering what he was doing at 13, 14, it gave him hope for the future. Maybe he wasni a fucking waster after all. Maybe his life would change! Maybe this was a turning point! He would now become a real artist. His destiny was about to be fulfilled!

The doorbell. Linda.

Elizabeth and Marilyn were his other two sisters. Marilyn lived in Ayr, the other two still in Glasgow. Linda was the eldest and Marilyn the second, Elizabeth being next up from himself. In other words, apart from everything else, he was the fucking baby of the family, the wee pet; he got spoiled rotten, that’s how come he was the half-wit ye saw today.

She came in with two cups of tea while he was kneeling on the floor; he was rummaging through a shoebox collection of old photographs. He had finished a cup before she arrived but it woulda ruined the image to tell her. She knelt down beside him. It was cheery and sad, really sad. He never quite felt there in the family, no as far as these kind of memories were concerned. The same with all the talking after the funeral; too many of the stories were early, they didni concern him except as a spectator. So much had happened either before he was born or when he was too wee to have any say in the matter.

I was just that bit young, he said. I mean you were married when I was at primary school.

Yeh. Linda was smiling at a photograph showing him up on dad’s shoulders. It was me took this one, she said.

Mum, Marilyn and Elizabeth were also there, everybody hand in hand; dad’s shirt open at the neck but smart-looking in a way that seemed ancient. Derek was wearing a strange white hat which he seemed to remember. Was that possible? He could only have been about 3 at the time. Mum smallish and carrying a bit of weight — that smile on her face; he knew that smile; and the coat she was wearing, he knew that as well. How come she carried that bit of weight though? She never seemed to eat. Funny. That whole world, whatever it was, totally gone now, vanished forever. Ah christ. He sighed and put his left arm round Linda’s shoulders: Ye’re wearing perfume.

I’m no past it yet you. . But her concentration was on the photograph: Ye were petted as a baby, she said.

Och away.

Ye were.

Petted. .!

A bit. Linda was smiling. . That holiday, she said; that was the time Elizabeth fell off the bike and skint her knee. She was always a moaning-faced wee besom — ye shoulda heard her scream!

I remember.

Do ye?

Yeh. It was a caravan we were staying.

O God it wasni half a caravan! Linda chuckled. The toilet was miles away, they called it a latrine. We all had a potty!

Each?

No each! My God though Derek that holiday was one in a million.

1 mind we had to go across the Forth Bridge on a train.

That’s right.

Although I dont know whether it’s me or just yous all talking about it I remember. Yeh. . He took the photograph from her. The pad and the pen were in the living room. He studied it. What would he have got from it? Ach, just something, there was something there; beautiful wee lassies his sisters, mum and dad, him as well, the wee boy, beautiful. He shut his eyes; what ye should do is drip yer tears into a cup and then dip in yer pen.

Linda had lifted another one out.

But it was these group studies. They were the ones. They were the real thing. The mysteries. I’ll get it, said Linda; the phone ringing, she got up from the floor. Whatever it was it was the group studies. When he was a hundred and thirty six he would be ready to start on them. Up until that point, up until that point.

It was for him, the phone. He frowned. It’s Bill Finlayson, she said.

Christ. . Derek grinned and strode through to the living room. Fin! Hullo?

Mister Hannah.

How ye doing?

How ye doing yerself?

Fine christ. Good to hear ye.

I wasni sure ye’d be back?

Coupla days ago.

Good.

Yeh.

I was sorry to hear about yer mother. I saw it in the Times.

Yeh.

I thought about going to the funeral. .

Ye shoulda.

Aye.

So how’s life treating ye?

Aw fine, alright.

Good, that’s good.

Aye. Listen d’ye fancy a pint or something, when ye going back?

A pint’d be great, great.

Him and Linda in the kitchenette eating toast and cheese. She had cleared the photos away and started making it while he was on the telephone. It was a tiny space but there was a pull-down table joined to one wall. Dad had done the joinering. He used to be quite good with his hands.

Yeh, said Linda, when mum got him going.

Ye mean he was lazy. . Derek smiled.

I dont mean he was lazy; just he had been out at his work all day.

Yeh, yeh, of course.

Saturday morning then he’d go to the match: ye only saw him on Sundays; sometimes he worked them as well.

Hard for mum.

It was.

It wasnt all good fun.

Linda looked at him.

It wasni easy, he said.

She reached to the oven and lifted across the teapot. Ye aye had a sharp tongue Derek, she said.

Did I?

She shook her head. She flicked her lighter to light her cigarette. She blew out the smoke, sipped at her tea.

I didni think I was that bad.

Linda raised her eyebrows.

Smoking does ye damage, he said.

She pointed at the spare slice of toast. That’s for you as well.

Feed the man. I’ve been looking after myself for a while now ye know I mean I’m no exactly handless.

Shut up and bloody eat.

Sexist.

Sexist? She frowned.

He hadni been going to stay long anyway. Even during the funeral, he had known it then. But now the decision was final. That was definitely it. Two more days. He would get drunk tonight with Fin; they hadni seen each other for a coupla years. That would get the other thing out his system. What other thing? His fucking life.

Maybe Sammy would turn up as well. Him and Derek had started as students the gether. Fucking hell, nearly thirteen years ago.

He finished the toast then ate the half-eaten bit on Linda’s plate. That was definitely sexist. Maybe she had just left it there and was coming back to polish it off later. But she had gone to phone a taxi and pack a few bags. It occurred to him she really was hoping he would stay. It was nice. It was nice. If he could maybe keep on the house or something, get it put under his own name. His sister Elizabeth had mentioned that at the funeral. It was a good big four-apartment. Mum never went to the trouble of buying it so it didni actually belong to the family, not as ‘property’. It wasni political, not as such, she just never got round to doing the business. She mentioned the idea in a letter to him once. Maybe the sisters had suggested it. But they wouldni have put her under any pressure. Ye never know though. Ye just never know. What sort of pressures other folk are under, especially if they’re short of money. Ye could end up doing anything. What was Linda putting in her bags for instance, what sort of stuff was she taking?

What a thought. What a thought. He smiled and got up from the stool, he walked to the kitchenette window and stared out for a moment then sat back down and drank a mouthful of tea. None of it concerned him anyway, it was none of his business. A dispassionate bastard. He had been too long on his own. Maybe if he had settled down and was rearing a family. Linda had been a mother for twenty years: twenty years.

Down in the back a woman was hanging up washing, a toddler playing by her feet, now hanging onto her leg.

Plus Elizabeth could be a bit pushy in some ways; it was noticeable at the funeral. But she didni have an easy time of it either; she had to be practical, her own man was a bit of an idiot where money was concerned. It mighta suited her if mum had bought the house. So it could be sold later on.

Who the fuck cares. Past history. All of it.

The taxi arrived. No a hackney, just an ordinary car.

The driver got out and opened the boot and Derek helped him lift in Linda’s bags.

Here you, she said.

Derek glanced at her and smiled; she was holding her arms out. They cuddled tight. She was crying. Yeh. The feeling that when he left Daneside Drive this time he would never see it again; this was it. A final event. Another final event. He shut his eyes to stop the tears. Poor old mum for christ sake poor old mum poor old fucking mum. He clenched the lids but the spasms shook his shoulders and he knew Linda would feel it but so what she would feel it so fucking what so fucking what.

The driver had returned to his seat and closed the door. His window was down and ye could hear a Radio 1 disc jockey with that horrible jolly voice. He didni want to go back to England either, he just didni want to go back there. Time to get out Britain altogether, he had been back too long, time to get away, a bit of freedom.

Linda was standing beside him. Did I scratch yer face? he said.

Dont worry about it. She smiled. Tommy only shaves once a week. And that’s when he’s going to play snooker with his mates. Are ye staying the weekend? Have ye decided.

She was holding his arms. I’m no sure, he said.

Tch. . she sighed.

Ye going to tell me to settle down!

It would be no use would it?

Look Linda I settled down a while ago.

Come back to Glasgow.

Maybe.

Yer girlfriend’ll come.

Derek chuckled.

She will. Just ask her. Linda let go his arms and he put his hands in his trouser pockets. She got into the rear of the car and he closed the door; her smile to him was self-conscious.

He waved till the taxi turned a corner, then stood for a minute watching two middle-aged men pass on the other side of the street, they seemed to be arguing about something.

He still had to finish the business details. The undertakers; the wreaths and the entourage, the three motor cars. It was a bit ironic that when ye were dead the cash for yer wreath came out what ye had left behind. I would like to buy some flowers for my funeral. Imagine leaving a message. He was going to leave one, on a postcard, with a seaside view, in with the last will and testament. I want a bunch of red and yellow tulips, I want them placed at the bottom end of the coffin, just above my feet. Pay for it out the petty cash.

He didni mind attending to the business. The sisters had taken for granted it would be one of them doing it but they were glad to leave it to him. Surprised as well, like it had never occurred to them. Quite right, he wasni exactly reliable.

Also the idea it might stop arguments. It happens. Once there’s a death everybody starts fighting over the goods. Mum didni have a great deal of stuff but whatever there was would have to be disposed of. He had no especial interest; most of it seemed to be linen. Although some of the mementoes would be nice to hang onto. Plus there was a hat he found in the cupboard where the gardening tools were kept, he quite liked it. But apart from that and a couple of photographs he didni want nothing; nothing; that was what he was entitled to, fucking nothing.

The idea of staying on in Glasgow. Even if he couldni get the house put into his own name. He could rent a flat somewhere. He still had a couple of quid. Audrey might come up. She might no right enough. Did he want her to come up? Whatever. It was the idea she wouldni want to. He just wasni sure. Given the choice she probably wouldni; she would stay where she was. Yeh, that was the reality. She would stay; she had her own people; it wasni so much the place but she had her own people. And the job, she liked the job. In his experience that was what women liked, jobs, they liked their jobs. That was a fucking funny word, job; what does that mean? job.

But how would he get by? Living away from Scotland for so long he was totally out the scene. Could he handle it? Who knows.

He had the pad by the bedroom window and was sketching, a hand-mirror propped in front of him; one continuous line, if it didni work in one continuous line. . The sky had got dark, big heavy clouds full of rain. He was leaving as soon as the business was done. They could do what they liked with the house. And everything that was in it. Including his three paintings. Fuck it. There’s no escaping the facts of life.

He was wearing the hat he had found. Maybe dad had worn it. He couldni remember, but whose else could it be? It was a most unGlasgow hat.

The Hannah resemblance was definitely there. Weird. Fucking hell but he was a strange bastard; he was, how strange, how strange people are, people are so strange, doing these things to one another, to themselves, they do things to themselves, a kind of masochistic quality. He sketched fast. But his face was straightforward — what’s a straightforward face? silly bastard, but no, straightforward, nothing startling, a face, a man’s face, bits of mum and bits of dad; bits of the sisters — my god these photographs where mum’s self-consciousness, having to put up with the camera, the tension, these signs of strain, just the way she looked. How come he hadni phoned more regularly? He could definitely have phoned more regularly. He nudged up the hat so it lay to one side. He took it off and went to the bathroom, washed his face in cold water. Back in the bedroom he closed the window. He would definitely keep wearing the hat. It was appropriate. Quite gallus as they used to say. Monsieur Gauguin s’il vous plait, the one with Anthony Quinn. He would have to pluck up courage to wear it outside on the street though. The weans would laugh at him, little bastards, they’d fling stones at it. That’s what happens in Glasgow, it’s the opposite of an attitude problem. He lifted the hat off the bed and looked at it. There’s no escaping the facts of life.

That seemed to be becoming a motto of his. What did it mean? Facts of life.

It was a pub down by Charing Cross him and Fin were meeting, which would take him a good hour to get to, by the time he waited for a bus. And he needed two of the bastards; one into the city centre then another one out. Unless he walked it. He could walk it, depending on the weather; it would be nice to walk it, see the city. He was well used to walking anyway, the number of times he landed skint and options there were none. The price of another pint or yer bus fare home, that was an auld yin. There’s always tomorrow. Fucking banalities, ye just say them.

The thing that was irking him was Sammy; no irking him a lot but it was still irking him. If Fin had phoned then he coulda phoned. Unless he had left Glasgow. It would be good to see him again, see how he was doing — that gallery he was getting involved with. Maybe he was back painting again. Fin was a close mate but Sammy had been closer. But he was a bastard, these social formalities, they just never occurred to him, things like phoning people. Untrue. They occurred to him, he just fucking ignored them. Unless he didni know. No everybody reads the death notices. Maybe he should give him a bell later, just say hello, see how he was doing.

Mum used to like Sammy, she thought he was a well-brought-up boy. He came from Stonehaven and had a nice accent, that made him exotic. People like exotica, it makes a change. Plus his parents had money; if yer parents have money folk think ye’re well-brought-up. Derek had never wanted money. What a lie. How come ye say these things, ye just seem to open yer fucking mouth. Sammy used to call Derek his associate. Imagine calling yer mate an ‘associate’? So what, eighteen years of age, ye were just a boy. No big deal.

As it turns out he didni walk it from the scheme into the city after all; he was going to but eventually he couldni be bothered, he took a taxi. Fin had arrived first and set him a pint up immediately. A big pint of heavy; beautiful. The pub was just round from the Mitchell Library, near enough the old stamping ground but without being one of the campus boozers as such. It was okay. Quite busy. A young crowd but mixed, business-type people plus a few that looked arty, students maybe; torn jeans and a coupla shaven nappers; some of the women were beautiful. When Derek went for the next round the woman behind the bar ignored him. Eventually a tall skinny boy took the order. At least he smiled. But maybe it was the hat. He had stuck it on at the last minute. So he now stood revealed as one more arty farty bastard. Unless the barmaid remembered him being drunk in the place years ago and was bearing a grudge. Glasgow pubs. He shifted his stance. He could see Fin sitting at the table, footering with the near empty pint glass. Fin was good. He hadni really got to know him until the end of the second term. Without him phoning there woulda been nothing. And there wasni anything else. Fucking weird. Life is fucking weird.

He got his change and carried the drink to the table. Heh Fin, he said, some great-looking women in this place.

I know.

Is that how ye chose it?

Who me?

Bastard.

I’m a married man.

Does that make a difference?

Unfortunately yes.

Heh, mind that time we did the walk at Glencoe?

I do aye.

That was a real highlight for me ye know.

It was a nice weekend. That wee pub down Kinlochleven.

The climbing itself I mean.

Well wait till ye get the rope on. Pity ye wereni staying a few days longer, ye coulda had a crack at it. I could aye get ye a pair of boots. .

I could get a pair myself.

Sure. But if ye couldni.

Derek nodded. Sounds good.

It is good, keeps ye sane. Cheers. . Fin sipped at the new pint.

So ye dont see anybody these days?

Nah. Apart from Matt, but he never talks.

I had this idea ye’d all meet regularly for reunions.

Aye!

Ye forget the world doesni stand still.

Fin licked the tips of both forefingers and smoothed the lines of hair round the top of his head: It’s alright for you, he said, I’m gone baldy.

Naw ye’re no.

Aye I am.

Naw ye’re no.

I am.

It doesni fucking look like it to me.

Dont be nice, I’ve known ye too long.

Derek took off the hat and laid it on the table, scratched at the crown of his head: I’m losing it as well.

Are ye fuck. Fin lifted the hat, he examined it. Nice hat. They’re in style ye know. Glasgow chic. I’ve got one myself; I didni shove it on in case ye laughed. It’s sharp as fuck but, unlike this yin!

Derek smiled. He took it back and put it on. He sipped the top of the new pint while glancing round the pub.

So: how did ye land in Plymouth?

Uch fuck long story; long boring story; it’s a short story in fact it’s no a long story at all. What about you though, how come ye chucked the Parks Department?

A fit of pique. I had a row with a gaffer.

Derek grinned.

He was a cheeky bastard.

All gaffers are cheeky bastards.

My da’s a gaffer. Course he’s a cheeky bastard too.

Ye just signing on then?

Aye. I’m looking after the wee yin though. A full-time job in itself that. I quite like it actually, changing nappies and all that, it’s aesthetically pleasing. I’ve found my métier.

Ye doing anything else?

Like what?

Derek shrugged.

Ye talking about art!

I’m talking about anything.

Nah. Fin lifted the pint tumbler. I’m just a Monroe freak. Ye know what a ‘Monroe’ is?

What?

A ‘Monroe’, it’s a hill over three thousand feet; any hill over three thousand feet; that’s what they call it, a ‘Monroe’.

Where?

Where? Scotland, where d’ye think?

Well how the fuck do I know? I was thinking ye were talking about one actual place — Glencoe or something, Aviemore. . I dont fucking know.

Nah, it covers the whole country.

Christ.

It takes fucking ages to do the lot, sometimes years. I used to get away every weekend, me and a coupla mates; no so much these days. But we’ll come again, we’ll come again.

Good.

Aye. Fin shrugged. So what about you?

Nothing really.

Ye were in Spain?

Aye but that’s a while ago, a coupla years.

Aw.

Plymouth the now but before that it was Bristol. Spain was before that again — in fact I think I’d left there the last time we met. Ye know the name of the last place I was working? the Jolly Roger, a bar in Fuengerola; the Jolly Roger! The name sums it up.

Fish and chips and pints of lager?

Just about.

I had these visions too, you with a band of rebels, shifting munitions over the mountains in southern Andalusia, on a mule. George Orwell. Or Hemingway.

Yeh.

So it wasni like that?

Naw.

Ach well, I never did trust that cunt, him and his big-game fishing. Mind you, being honest, I canni say I ever really fancied the country that much, a bit touristy for me.

No it all. Derek shrugged. Parts of it are good. If ye like climbing too I mean. . They’re fitba daft as well, the people. Some good teams.

No as good as here.

Nonsense.

Fin grinned. Ye were saying ye were up last Christmas?

I was, yeh.

Ye shoulda phoned.

I was only here a coupla days.

Still. .

Ah ye know what like it is; by the time ye see the family. . And ye canni miss one out, ye hurt their feelings. I didni stay for New Year.

Ye didni stay for New Year!

Naw.

New Year? The famous Hogmanay!

I had just started in the job.

Some Scotsman you are!

Give us a break.

Fin chuckled, raising the pint tumbler to his lips. So ye like England I take it?

Plymouth, yeh, I suppose I do, yeh. .

Fin drank a mouthful of beer.

Yeh, it’s alright. I like being near the sea. Sometimes it reminds me a bit of this place. I quite like the people.

How come ye dont go to a place like London?

There isni a place like London, it’s a one-off. Anyway I spent a bit of time there. It’s alright. I might go back. I dont think so but. A wee bit enclosed for me — no horizons.

Fin sat back on his chair and folded his arms: Yes my man, ye’ve been leading a bit of a life.

No really.

Aye ye have.

I’ve no; it might seem that way: it’s just called ‘being rootless’. Derek got up suddenly: I need a piss. He paused and muttered, See what I mean. .

Three females were sitting at a table he had to pass to reach the gents’. One especially looked beautiful, wearing stretch black tights and a short skirt. No the best place for women to be sitting. At some point in the night there could be a smell of urine. Maybe no. Two of them glanced up as he pushed open the door. A stupid thought: were they wondering about him in the act of pissing? what his prick would look like? Did women think these things? He wasni that much older than them. The door creaked loudly on its hinges. Or was he? Maybe he was. They were nice.

There was a mirror immediately inside; he paused a moment, stared at himself, the hat and the unshaven chin. What did he look like? A fucking idiot. Plymouth was alright and so was Bristol, so was London and so was Spain. Maybe he should try and phone Audrey. He wasni feeling that good. He wasni. He was feeling fairly awful in fact. No physically, mentally. Mentally just fucking fuckt. For a start he shouldni have left the job; that was just silly. But he was silly. He was stupid, he had always been stupid. He had always been stupid.

The urinals were clean, cakes of the blue deodorant stuff. His first piss of the night and the suds were a healthy yellowish brown; later on it would be a greenish white. Unless he pissed blood. Maybe he would piss blood. Maybe he was going to die tonight. Maybe this was it. Poor Audrey, waiting down there. Who would contact her? Nay cunt. Naybody would tell her. He would just have vanished. She would have to make her own inquiries. There wasni anybody up here. No unless Linda, unless Linda did it. Maybe she would. She was alright, good sister. They were all good sisters. Good family. It was a good family. Oh fuck sake. He zipped the fly then washed his hands. Why the fucking hell had he wrapped the job? He was just fucking foolish, that’s what he was, foolish. There are facts of life and ye’ve got to face them. A stupid bastard.

He washed his face, wiped it dry with his shirt, set the blow-dry going for his hands. The blood into his cheeks. He was growing a beard, he was growing a beard. A stone-cold face; greeny white with a dark beard; yellow and red tulips.

It just wasni fair. It wasni a life. No wonder ye fucking looked surprised, no fucking wonder.

He waited in behind the outside door for a few moments, not looking at the mirror, he had his eyes closed. He heard somebody approach. He didni look at the women while exiting. Some guys laughing too loud at the bar. A stupid joke probably. Ye could understand these guys that took a mad-turn and grabbed somebody and let them have it. As he sat back at the table he gave a smile to Fin and he drank some beer straightaway but the swallowing was difficult and he gulped to get it down; a bad moment and he just needed to get through it, he just should never have put the hat on, he should never have fucking wore it, it wasni his it was his fucking da’s it was his da’s and his mother had fucking nursed it man he should never have fucking wore it it was just fucking wrong; he took another drink. These bloody weird things that happen, bloody weird things, if ye had took another path in life, if ye had went another way, if he hadni went abroad, stayed in Glasgow, if he hadni done the stupid thing at Art School, if he had stayed and finished his fucking course, these things ye do, who knows what effects ye have, these things are a mystery.

Fin was looking at him.

I never fucking asked her ye know.

What?

I just I mean. . my mother and that. I shoulda come home more regular. Christ ye know I never even invited her for a holiday anywhere. The places I’ve stayed as well, some places Fin I mean abroad, beautiful, she never seen the likes of it man, no just Spain: Southern Italy, Portugal — I spent a wee bit of time in Portugal; good there, up north, I liked it. Fucking hell man I never invited her to any place. Probably she wouldni have went. But she mighta. I never asked her. I bet ye she woulda. I mean she was never outside Britain in her life. Never!

Fin nodded.

Derek raised the beer to his mouth. I coulda paid her way, he said, if I’d thought about it, I just never thought about it.

Ye dont. Ye never think about these things.

Naw I know.

Naybody does, no till it’s too late.

I know.

Unfortunately it’s typical.

Yeh.

Fin was watching him. It’s just the way it goes.

I know. Derek paused then smiled. I’m allowed to have regrets but eh? am I no?

Aye but I just mean ye’re bound to think of the things you coulda done, when ye had the chance — ye’re bound to.

Yeh.

It’s natural.

Derek nodded.

I know it doesni make it any easier. . Fin gazed at Derek and when he didni respond he said: Sorry.

Naw.

No exactly diplomatic but.

Fuck that. Derek sipped at the beer; he smiled suddenly. A thought crossed my mind there at the toilet, apropros of fuck all; I could be a father in two countries, three including Britain. I mean I’m no boasting it’s just. . interesting. He grinned: Wee Hannahs running about in foreign countries. Yeh! He glanced at Fin: Must be a good feeling being a father.

No all the time.

Sure.

Sometimes ye just dont feel able to cope. The wife’s pregnant again by the way.

Is that right?

Aye. It’s a pity ye didni have time to come round for a meal or something. Yous two’d get on ye know, I told her about ye.

Ye told her about me. .

Aye.

No everything?

Fin shrugged.

Well I’m definitely no going round now.

Dont be daft.

I’m being serious, it’s just an embarrassment. Derek shook his head. I wish ye hadni.

Sorry.

It doesni matter. He adjusted the position of his hat then took it off and laid it on the empty seat nearest him.

It was a while ago I told her. She just found it funny.

Yeh, the guy that stole the video equipment, it is funny, funny as fuck.

I’m sorry.

Naw.

Honest, I am.

It’s alright.

I shouldni have.

It’s no a problem.

Sorry.

It’s no a problem Fin it’s okay.

Big mouth.

Doesni matter.

It just came out I mean.

Yeh.

Sorry.

No bother.

Naw, I’m sorry.

It’s me, I’m sorry, fucking hell, I just over-react. It’s a daily occurrence.

I apologise anyway.

I apologise.

Fin chuckled.

Yeh. .! So what about Sammy? Ye seen him recently.

I haveni, naw.

Is he still around?

Far as I know. The gallery’s still going anyway.

Him and Isobel still the gether?

They are, aye. Time passes but some things stay the same. She had a show on no long ago, a one-woman. Quite well noticed.

Great.

It travelled.

Outside Scotland?

I think so.

She’s doing well then eh?

Seems to be.

Ah she was always strong but. She went her own way. I used to like her stuff. I used to like to see what she was doing. She could paint. She wasni feart at all. All these browns and burnt oranges, fucking purple! Derek grinned. Did ye see the show yerself?

I crept in, aye.

What did ye think?

Fin made a movement with his right hand.

Ye didni like it?

Eh. . half and half.

Derek nodded.

Some of it.

I wonder if it went to London?

I dont know.

Be nice if it did.

Wouldni be that big a deal.

Yeh well. .

I mean it depends on whereabouts; all these wee galleries they’ve got down there: New York’s the place, that’s where they’re all going — Berlin. London’s down the table. Second Division stuff. So I hear anyway. Mind you it could be the fucking moon for all I know.

Ho!

No kidding. I finished with that sorta shit years ago.

Yeh, well, so did I.

We’ll drink to it then. .! Fin had raised his pint tumbler. They clinked glasses. No surrender!

Fuck sake dont bring religion into it!

The two of them laughed.

Derek said, I was wondering whether to give him a bell?

Sammy?

Yeh.

Go ahead.

Derek gazed across at the bar, glanced at his watch. It was twenty to eight. What time do the pubs shut?

Midnight around here.

Mm.

Give him a phone if ye like.

Derek nodded.

Does he know ye’re in town?

Dont think so, naw.

D’ye no keep in touch?

The last time I saw him was that time with you.

Was it?

Christ Fin I dont keep in touch with anybody — I mean naybody, naybody at all. I dont fucking keep in touch with nay cunt. Derek grinned and shook his head, he lifted the hat from the chair. The original loner. . He smoothed down the brim of the hat. This musta been the old man’s, he said, I found it in a cupboard. I dont mind him ever wearing it though. Ye’d remember something like that eh! He peered inside and picked a hair out from its crown.

One of the three females from the table near the gents’ had gone to the bar. She was leaning her elbows there, propping her chin in the palms of her hands, one leg bent at the knee, classic pose. Derek and Fin both studied her. Fin smiled: Time for another round.

She’s nice eh?

She is.

She’s no the only one in here. Good pub.

Aye it’s no bad. Better than it used to be. It was a bit of a dive, mind?

I dont, to be honest.

Naybody went here except the fucking hardened drinkers. It was a man’s shop. Spit and sawdust. It’s changed owners a coupla times since. They’re aye trying to yuppify it. Without total success. So what about the lassie down in England then, been seeing her long?

Nearly six months. . Derek put the hat back on his head, tugged it down over his brow and folded his arms.

Is it a record?

Ah, fucking record.

Just the way ye said it!

I shoulda brought her with me. I didni ask her but. I seem to be doing everything wrong the now; I dont know what it is.

Ye go through these stages.

Yeh. Derek glanced at his watch. I was thinking about giving her a bell as well.

Ye should.

Ah she’ll probably no be in anyway man she’ll be out somewhere — gallivanting. He smiled, glancing at the watch again. Fucking gallivanting, soon as my back’s turned. He lifted the pint tumbler and studied it, then drank down the remainder of the beer, passing the empty to Fin who still had some to finish: Did ye no say ye were getting a round in?

I did aye. Fin frowned for a moment: I actually bumped into Sammy a few weeks back.

Did ye?

The Horseshoe Bar; we wereni talking, just hello and that. Fin swirled his remaining beer round the bottom of the glass.

Yous two still dont get on eh?

No really.

Yeh, well.

I find it hard to talk to him Derek, being honest, he’s so wrapped up in his own head. If ye’re no speaking about him ye’re no speaking, know what I mean, he never seems to hear ye.

Derek nodded.

He’s actually a bit of a prick, ye know. . Fin swallowed the rest of the beer.

Well he wasni always.

Fin placed the empty tumbler on the table: He is now.

Derek shrugged.

His patter, I canni be annoyed with it — it’s alright if ye’re twenty one but no thirty one. Gets fucking boring after a while.

Fair enough.

A conversation stopper. Sorry. I’ll get the drink.

Doesni matter.

Naw I know ye were good mates.

Yeh, well.

I’m just saying what I think.

Fair enough.

Fin shrugged.

Derek watched him walk off with the two empties, a brief glance here and there as he went. But relaxed. It was his place and he was relaxed. Why not? Glasgow, it was home. But Derek was relaxed too, he felt relaxed. It was his fucking home as well.

The woman was still standing at the bar, now having a word with the big skinny guy who made her smile at something; she returned to her table carrying a tray.

Life.

There was an empty cigarette packet on the edge of the table. He shoulda brought the pad; he had a pen.

Fuck.

It would be good to get on the overnight train, just draw down the blinds, have a sleep, fucking blank it all out. What did he have to do? No much — he had half-told Marilyn he would go and see her. He could phone instead, it wouldni matter. Christ he could actually shoot off the night; there was still time; a quick taxi up the road and get the stuff packed; fuck sake.

He couldni. It just wasni on.

The sweater the woman with the stretch tights was wearing was wine in colour, almost no bulge at the chest but ye knew her breasts were probably big the way the bulge protruded lower down, her shoulders hunched slightly. Her and her mates were eating potato crisps. In his experience that’s what women did, they ate potato crisps. How come? Just a fact of life. That’s what they did. Maybe it was that stopped them getting drunk. Gin and tonic. A different type of drinking they did as well. Altogether different. They were just altogether different. Sometimes ye wondered why they ever went for a man. They were so beautiful and men wereni. Even the barmaid, probably she was just under pressure. People are under pressure. Ye never know what’s going on, what’s under the surface. Derek slept with this woman a coupla years ago and one night she burst out crying. For no reason. Just life. It was getting to her. He lumbered her from a pub up in London. She was divorced but she had a boyfriend. She wasni crying about that, being in bed with him. She was crying because of life, the things that happen, that’s what it was, except she couldni bring herself to tell him. She was really beautiful. She was too thin but and she smoked all the time. Fucking amazing; people; amazing. If Sammy was here just now they’d be moving in on the three at the table. They would. That’s what they’d be doing. That time they got off with the two lassies at the pictures along Sauchiehall Street. Fucking hell what a night; paired off in separate bedrooms and the lassie Sammy was with had just come walking in, getting fags or something, no caring, tits bouncing, no even wearing a pair of pants. The men would nevera done that. No way. No embarrassment. Just so relaxed. How come people are so relaxed? Ye wonder. Had mum ever wanted to get married again? Fucking hell he couldni even remember thinking that before. Maybe he hadni: maybe this was the first time he had ever thought it. Maybe she had wanted to. Poor mum, poor fucking mum. People’s lives. People’s lives. Fin was back. Derek smiled and reached for the pint.

Fin said: D’ye ever smoke a cigar?

Naw.

I was gonni get a couple.

I have smoked them once or twice.

Ye dont like them?

No really.

I sometimes get one.

Ye shoulda.

Fin shrugged. One thing that does occur to me. I was thinking at the bar. . And dont take it the wrong way. Just yer politics Derek, ye know, they’re bound to be different to what they’d been if ye’d stayed.

Ye think so?

Definitely.

Derek nodded.

The way ye mention Britain for instance.

What about it?

Just that there’s nay separation up here. It’s always Scotland. No just one minute and Britain the next.

What did I say?

Aw nothing really, it’s only the way ye say Britain all the time.

I didni know I was saying Britain all the time.

Aye, I mean like it was one country. See naybody does that here. Naybody. No unless there’s some sort of qualification involved. I mean that includes the fucking Tories, if they say it, they’re being ironic — or sarcastic, just trying for effect. Ye’ve got to remember when ye’re talking establishment here ye know ye’re talking Labour Party; they’re the reactionaries, that’s who we want rid of, no the fucking Tories; they dont count.

Derek nodded.

I mean they dont.

Fine.

Folk dont realise that.

Is this a lecture?

Fin paused before saying: It’s no a lecture.

Naw, come on.

It’s no a lecture.

Ye talking about Nationalism? Ye a Nationalist?

Fin sighed. Christ Derek that’s hardly even a question nowadays I mean it’s to what extent. Unless ye’re talking about the S.N.P. Is that what ye’re talking about?

I’m no really talking about anything. It’s you, ye just sat down and started blasting.

Did I?

Yeh.

Sorry.

Ye dont know anything about my politics.

True.

Ye dont. I’ll tell ye something but; see down there, people wouldni know what you were on about. To them Scotland’s nothing at all, it’s just a part of England. No even a county man they think it’s a sort of city. Yous are all just paranoiac as far as they’re concerned, a big chip on the shoulder.

Oh I know.

I’m talking about the average person. Doesni matter what grade their education is. The average person.

I came on too strong.

Ye did, yeh. I mean I didni even know I was saying Britain all the time!

Fin smiled. Ye were.

I’ll watch it in future.

Fin held his hands up: I submit.

In fact it’s hard to talk politics at all down there. I tend to keep my mouth shut. Unless I’ve had a few. Ye know they dont even know geography. They’ve got this hazy view of the world. See a place like Inverness for instance, they think it’s near Yorkshire. Next door to Crewe or somefuckingthing.

Exactly. I mean it’s bound to influence ye.

Well I wouldni deny that.

That’s all I meant but Derek, ye’ve learnt to say Britain.

Yeh cause down there it’s England, they dont even say Britain.

Aye. So let’s leave it.

Naw dont let’s leave it.

I think it’s best.

Do ye, I dont.

Fin smiled.

Dont patronise me.

Christ that’s the last thing I’m doing.

Ye dont know a thing about me.

I’m no patronising ye come on! It’s just you’ve been away so long man — there’s a common ground missing.

Yeh well so what?

It takes a while.

What takes a while?

Fin shrugged. Talking. Getting the basics sorted out. Takes fucking ages.

So what?

Fin smiled. We’ll just fucking argue.

I dont care if we argue. That’s what ye miss christ a good-going debate; I dont get it down there, it’s all one-way traffic, naybody to fucking communicate with, no properly, no unless ye bump into a black guy or something, maybe an Irishman. Apart from that. . It’s hard to open yer mouth.

Fin nodded.

Dont just fucking nod.

Well what am I supposed to do? Fin spoke quietly.

I dont know. Carry on talking about what ye’re talking.

There’s too much.

Ye are patronising me ye know.

I dont mean to.

Well ye are.

Fin shook his head. I dont mean to.

After a moment Derek replied, Okay.

Fin lifted his pint tumbler, drank some beer. They sat in silence for several moments. Fin spoke first: How long ye staying for?

Coupla days. Derek rubbed at his forehead, his eyes closed; Till I get the business done.

Is there a lot?

Yeh. Uch well naw, no really, the undertaker does most of it. Aw ye do’s pay the bills. There’s the lawyer right enough. She never left a will, my mother, she had her insurance and that but it’s one of these fucking mickey-mouse efforts; this great big certificate; it looks like the kind ye get at the carnival, if ye win a fucking coconut. It just about pays the cost of the wreath and the reception, the wake or whatever ye call it. She had her bank book. Thirteen hundred quid. No a lot eh?

Fin said nothing.

There’s furniture and linen and all that; tablecloths, teatowels; that sort of stuff, sheets and pillowcases. It’s a case of the sisters taking what they want, then flogging the rest. Or I dont know, giving it away, Oxfam or something; they can figure that yin out. It’s sad but. Ye’ve just got to batter on. Fuck aw else ye can do. That’s how I didni want the girlfriend here. I wasni sure how I’d handle it. It’s a bit sad, know what I mean.

How was the service?

Aw fine, fine; better than I was expecting, the actual thing itself, quite moving. Some auld biddies turned up I hadni seen for years. An auld auntie! Derek grinned. Ye want to have seen her, christ, beautiful. The ancient of days. Related to my da. I thought it was good, her turning up, I mean. . Derek grinned again, shook his head. Brooches and fucking. . ye know, hats and fucking chiffon and all that. I last saw her when I was eight. Stern, christ. Travelled up from Ballantrae or some place. Like an auld Covenanter; ye could imagine her voice booming out in a psalm when the troops were arriving. Fuck sake.

Fin chuckled.

But they aw seemed to be church people. My maw’s side too. I mean ye forget people still go to church.

Aw they still go alright!

Yeh. . Tell ye what I have been doing Fin, sketching, I’ve been sketching. Myself. .! I’m sitting staring into mirrors. Catharsis eh?

Maybe it’s necessary.

Yeh, maybe. Listen but I’m glad ye phoned. Sitting up in the house man ye know. . Good ye made contact.

It wasni a chore.

Uch naw I know but thanks I mean anyway.

Fuck sake man.

Derek grinned. It’s just the past, the past; something to fucking hang onti — so’s ye can fucking dump it Fin know what I mean, I want the world, the world, capital double-u. Tell ye a plan I’ve had for a coupla years, saving the dough and going to South America. Getting one of these Volkswagen vans. Getting it kitted out and that.

Mm. Dangerous country. Guy I know was in Nicaragua.

Right.

He was there a year, schoolteacher, says it was fucking amazing, fucking yankee bastards. Central America right enough, no the South. . Ye did know that eh!

Yeh.

Thought ye did! Fin smiled. Sorry.

Dont mention it.

Fin lifted the beer to his mouth, but paused. Give Sammy a phone. He’ll be glad to hear from ye. Dont fucking mind me, I’m biased.

Maybe later. Hey did I ever tell ye when I blew outa here?

Ye hitched across Europe.

Yeh, I was gonni show you bastards, I was really gonni show ye. Art, ye didni know the meaning of the word! Derek stopped and frowned: I wonder what I done it for? That fucking stupid video equipment. It was just lying there. I really fucking done it man eh! Fucking. . He shrugged, smiled. I went chasing the light. Purity! A certain sky! At a certain time of the morning! With certain cloud formations! Who was I looking at then? I dont know — I think it was Corot. Then that classical stuff, these landscapes with bits of architecture, light breaking through the clouds. What I was really doing was looking for ideal sex! as well as cracking up, because I had disgraced the family

Aw fuck.

Naw, just turned nineteen. The auld man dead five years. I really fucking done it man. I really fucking let them down, my maw and ah christ Fin the lot, ye know, that canni be helped, it’s just a fact.

Ah come on.

It’s true but, a fact of life. I accept it. The Great White Hope of the Family.

Fin sighed.

I also had this vision right enough; meeting up with a woman at the side of a lonely country road, a shepherdess, or else the runaway daughter of an Arabian potentate, we would disappear into the horizon the gether, knapsacks on our backs.

Fin smiled.

Romantic young fuckers. A misspent youth. It was all these glossy nude prints, that’s what I blame. .

Aye. . Fin laid his pint on the table: D’ye mind the first time ye slept with a woman?

Yeh.

So do I. I was twenty at the time; quite auld eh?

It’s no that auld.

Fin smiled. Aye it is.

I was eighteen.

Better than twenty.

No much.

Still better but.

Derek shrugged.

I mean twenty’s auld.

No really.

Anyway, anyway, wait till I tell ye. See it was strange, ye know, I mean it was. It was peculiar, a kind of metamorphosis.

What?

Aye, a kind of metamorphosis, the female’s head, when it was on the pillow.

Derek smiled.

Naw, honest, it changed right in front of my eyes, she became a hag, an auld crone. It was like a horror movie. I’m no joking, it was frightening. She had fell asleep and I was looking at her, I was lying up on my elbow, drawing her with my tongue, ye know, on the roof of my mouth — the way us art students are aye supposed to be practising — it musta been roundabout dawn, no quite dark, but no light either. It was after we’d done the business. I think I was still trying to ingrain it in my mind that it’d fucking happened ye know: couldni fucking take it in man. A wonderful experience, ye know, I was trying to capture it forever. That lovely wee feeling when ye press up and ye actually get inside for the first time, all snug.

Shut up!

Naw. . Fin smiled: Honest.

Derek shook his head. Who was it anyway? do I know her?

Nah.

Ye sure?

Nah. Wait till I tell ye but. She’s lying there, right; but see after a wee while, she turns on her back, ye know, her mouth open; I’m just studying her, dead self-conscious man, thinking to myself how it was a magical moment I was gonni have to treasure forever. And then her face changes! Honest! Fin whispered: It had fucking changed! There were all these lines round her mouth and her eyes. And her hair man it was all straggly, and thin like it was really thin. No kidding ye it was fucking frightening. I was wanting to wake her up; cause I was getting scared ye know, but I was waiting for my mind to clear. I knew it was me ye see I knew it wasni her. I shut my eyes a few times but it didni work, I just couldni get myself out it, whatever it was, it just stayed.

The hallucination. .

Aye.

Ye musta been dreaming.

Naw. A hallucination; ye’re right; I was fucking wide awake.

Wow. So what happened?

Nothing. I just musta fell asleep.

Well well.

Naw but fuck sake Derek I mean christ almighty man ye’ve got to admit. . ye know, fuck sake.

Did ye tell the lassie?

Naw. .!

Dont blame ye.

How could ye tell her!

D’ye ever analyse it?

All the fucking time. See back then but Derek I used to think there was something up with any female that liked me, I mean if she didni get bored with my company, there had to be something up with her. Otherwise how come she wasni with somebody else? If she was normal she would be. Ergo she had to have a personality problem. That was how I had it sussed anyhow. I suppose because I’d been waiting so long for the first go it put me off. The longer it went the harder it got. Even after the first yin. It took me fucking ages for the next. Ye used to wonder if it was a figment of the imagination. It was that experience made it real! Maybe if it had all went normal I would still’ve been fucking waiting! Fin laughed. Naw, no kidding ye. My fucking sanity was saved. Without that brain seizure who knows what woulda happened.

Ach everybody’s got problems with women.

Dont spoil it christ.

Naw but they do, everybody.

Aye but they never saw me. Know what I mean? I was the type of guy, if I was at a disco, they’d trip over my feet on the way to the cludgie. In conversation or that man whenever one of them was talking to me I knew she was wanting to talk to somebody else. I could aye see her eye roving the company.

It’s called sex-appeal.

Thanks.

The spark. Either ye’ve got it or ye havni.

Aye, thanks a lot.

Hasta la vista, it’s true.

That’s a boost to my ego that.

It’s true but.

You had it I suppose?

Naw did I fuck, I was Mister Hang-Up as well.

No like me ye wereni.

I was — how d’ye think I hung about with Sammy! The cast-offs. I blamed my home-life, being brought up in a houseful of women. I was too aware of the species. See like in the bathroom when I was a wee boy it was always tampons and stick-on towels; perfumes and deodorants; bottles of this and bottles of that; everywhere ye looked — ye went to wash yer hands in the washhand basin and guaranteed ye knocked something flying, guaranteed. Plus all the knickers and bras lying about.

Fin chuckled.

Honest, it’s the wrong experience, it throws ye in on yerself. Talking with yer wee mates at school, ye had to kid on ye didni know anything, ye didni want to be disloyal. Maybe if I’d had a brother. .

I had two of them; we fought like fuck.

Yeh but at least it prepared ye for the outside world, the mysteries of the other sex.

I had a sister too.

Aw, ye were a well-balanced bastard then?

Aye.

So that’s that analysis fucked. Naw but seriously, I’m sure it musta had some effect.

In what way?

Who knows? Probably I shoulda turned out gay.

That’s what Freud would tell ye.

Would he?

Fin smiled.

It wouldni surprise me. Relationships have all been bad.

Ye still listen to Dylan! Fin laughed.

I thought everybody still listened to Dylan.

I mind the one time I was up in yer house, in yer bedroom, we had the records on; bottles of Newcastle Brown, Dylan blasting it out — Idiot Wind, yer maw brought us up toast and scrambled egg.

That’s right.

Me you Sammy, Toby, Vic Edwards. .

Yeh.

Noisy bastards we were; yer maw musta had some patience.

She was just deaf.

Aw. Was she?

Naw. Derek shrugged, Like ye say, she had a lota patience. A while ago that.

Ten year.

More like twelve.

Twelve. . aye.

Aw dear. Derek sighed. Fuck. It was good ye phoned.

Give us a break.

Naw, fuck, it was. I mean come on, if you hadni phoned that was that christ, nothing. And that’s my life ye’re talking about, Glasgow, that’s it, that’s fucking it.

Fin was silent.

That’s fucking it.

Fin had begun playing an imaginary violin. And Derek smiled: Yeh, I know. See I dont want to belabour the point but I’m no in touch with any cunt. When I was up the hill it was all wee cliques. It was like they all knew each other already. As if they’d all went to the same primary school the gether. Honest, that’s what like it was.

Derek, it’s natural feeling that.

Yeh well. But that’s how I fell back on Sammy.

Cause everybody else was avoiding him?

Come on, he was popular. And in comparison to the rest of them I mean fuck sake.

Right enough, he could aye talk a good painting.

At least he had his own ideas, and he was interested.

Fin sighed.

He used to trip up McAllister.

Big deal.

Fuck sake Fin.

Well McAllister: one more chronic ego — fucking tripping him up, that isni much.

Christ what ye expecting off a first-year student?

Sammy’s a pseudo bastard. Always was and always will be. Still thinks he’s Modigliani for fuck sake. How the hell Isobel stands for it I dont know.

Derek smiled. Ah he’s alright.

He’s no alright at all.

Derek shrugged.

He isni.

I think ye’re expecting too much.

It’s no a case of that Derek, ye just spot a pseud a mile away. Fin sniffed. Anyhow, I dont want to spend time talking about him. What’s the point, ye know, past tense — it’s what folk’re doing now that interests me, and he’s doing fuck all, fuck all that I’m interested in. Fucking wine-and-cheese parties. . Fin started rapping his knuckles on the edge of the table, he kept it going for several seconds before glancing at Derek:

But Derek spoke first; It’s a class thing with you Fin come on.

I know it’s a class thing with me so what?

Ye’re sounding awful bitter.

Aw.

Ye are.

Is that right?

It’s no his fault his parents had money.

That’s fuck all to do with it, the fucking money, I’m no bothered about that. He swallowed a mouthful of beer.

What then? What ye got against him?

I’ve no got nothing against him.

Ye have.

He’s just fucking irrelevant.

Derek stared at Fin, then at the table; he put his hand on the pint tumbler and gripped it.

Irrelevant.

Derek sniffed slightly, he looked at Fin.

Sorry. Fin turned his head away and muttered through his teeth, Fucking class thing! Fuck sake. .

Derek relaxed his shoulders. He glanced round the room, it was busy, busy; he was gripping the pint tumbler again. He began to say something but so did Fin and they both stopped. It was Fin continued: Dont fucking take this the wrong way Derek right?

Take what the wrong way?

What I’m gonni say.

What ye gonni say?

Dont take it the wrong way.

I dont know what it is yet.

Fin was silent.

On ye go but.

Fin sighed.

I’ll no take it the wrong way.

Jesus christ.

Go ahead.

Fin scratched his head, he glanced at a group of people sitting at a nearby table, they were talking loudly and laughing. He waited a moment before speaking: Ye see, what it is. . dont fucking take it the wrong way now.

I’m no gonni.

See what you done, it was so valuable, so valuable.

Derek watched him.

Knocking the stuff I’m talking about. I’m serious. It was man. For us: us from the sticks, ye know, the ones that thought we were unique.

What ye talking about?

It was a lesson. It put us in our place — put us back in our place. Aye it was a class thing, a total class thing.

Come on.

Ach come on fuck all man they had it drummed into us, the cream of the crop, we were special, so fucking ‘special’! Fin glared at Derek. The pride and joy! We were on our way. Fame and fortune. The very worst was if we wound up with some good class white-collar job in an office. All that sort of crap. I’m thinking of my family, the way they saw it. Then for us it was art, ye know I mean art; art — that made it even worse. I’m talking about for us, the fucking hillbillies. Because we could fucking be rebels at the same time. We could relax while we were getting on in life; we didni have to feel guilty. Know what I mean?

Derek shrugged.

We were playing games. We were. Fucking pathetic. My maw and da are still like that ye know, they’re still expecting great things. Me on the broo; that job in the Parks Department, they think it’s all a phase; they’re still walking about on a wee cloud of gold, cotton wool or something, candy-floss. They’re expecting me to get the call any minute. Our specialness, that’s what we had to contend with — we were brought up with it. It drove us apart. Fucking isolated us man, the tip for the top. You’re talking about primary school: see in mine, one of the fucking teachers there told my maw I might be up to university standard. Can ye believe it? Fuck sake! Eleven years of age I was. And it fucked me. It fucked me everywhere. Especially with my pals, the wee boys I went about with: word got round. And the gulf started opening then, that was when it fucking happened, the great divide. Conversations used to stop when I entered the company.

Uch away.

I’m fucking serious. There was this wee halo over my head, a golden glow. Plus they thought I was maybe a spy, the other weans, they thought I had to be carrying notes to the teacher — quite right they thought that, quite fucking right. I mean see my maw and da now, see at this very minute, cause I’ve married a lassie that works in a bank; they’re expecting their grandson to wind up fuck knows what, a doctor or something. No kidding ye man it’s like they’ve sired a thoroughbred stallion.

Derek smiled.

Honest. Listen to this too: fucking mate of mine, right, a guy I go climbing with, he went to Uni; know what they told him the very first day he arrived? I’m talking about a first-year student, seventeen poxy fucking years of age: know what they told him?

What?

You’re the cream. You’re the cream son, that’s what they told him; you’re the top eight percent in this country. The other fucking ninety two’s a bunch of fucking headbangers, that’s what they told him; some fucking lecturer, so-called Marxist — specialist in the lumpen proletariat — that’s what he fucking telt them! Well I’ll tell you something man, I want to fucking go up fucking University Avenue and fucking strangle the bastard, that’s what I fucking want to do.

Mm.

No fucking kidding ye; it’s pathetic, just pathetic. And then they all go about gawking at each other; they do! Fucking gawking at each other! Total wonder and amazement at their own fucking uniqueness. Whatever crap the lecturers dish them out too ye know they all listen to it, they all fucking listen to it. We were the same man. We all went about with this wee smile on our fucking faces. Predestination. The chosen few. Bound for Glory.

Woody Guthrie.

Woody Guthrie.

No everybody falls for it.

No everybody falls for it, okay. Okay; no everybody falls for it. Fin had lifted his pint tumbler, he paused before drinking from it: But see cunts like McAllister Derek they’re the worst. The so-called radicals. They’re just Sammys dressed up.

Derek laughed.

They are but. See if Sammy ever became a lecturer up there that’s what he’d be, another Joe McAllister, getting all the students following him about like wee puppy dogs, screwing all the first-year lassies, getting all the boys thinking he was the greatest rebel in the world — genuine revolutionary and all that, Che Guevara on twenty grand a year plus perks for a twenty six hour week. Ah for christ sake. Fin snorted, then began chuckling. Fucking crazy. They’re the worst but, it’s them keeps the system going; straight dialectics; they inject the new energy, they give it the power, the fucking life, the weltenschang whatever ye call it. In fact they dont, they dont, they actually stop it; they stop it; they fucking crush it at birth. You’re just lucky ye missed it. I had it for four years.

After a moment Derek said, So what’s my part?

Fin nodded.

Ye started off gonni tell me something, I wasni to take it the wrong way ye said.

Aye. . Fin sighed, smiling: You went too soon man that’s your trouble.

I had nay choice.

Och I know, I know. .

So what is it?

Uch nothing. I mean I’ve more or less said it. It’s no a big thing — although it is, in a way, it is; ye see ye left a lasting impression.

Yeh well.

Ye did. Ye fucking spurred me anyway. No at first but gradually, ye know, I’m dead serious, it’s a good kick up the arse I was needing. I mean. . that’s what I was needing, a good kick up the arse. Fin chuckled. They fucking hated what you did. Oh they did man dont fucking kid yerself. The unnameable. Whenever some cunt like McAllister started on with all that crap about how any real artist will aye beat the system, there you were, with the swag bag, getting the boot, artist or no it doesni fucking matter. First it’s the economics, then after that it’s the economics again.

Derek shrugged.

Dont underestimate it.

I dont.

It got in the way of the propaganda.

That means my life hasni been in vain.

Dont underestimate it.

I dont.

Fin nodded.

Ye just have a habit of sounding as if ye dont think I know fuck all.

Rubbish.

Is it?

Fuck sake Derek.

Ye’ve been patronising me all night.

I’ve no.

Ye fucking have.

It was a lesson ye see. For all the would-be revolutionaries; artist as rebel and all that, as long as ye dont interfere with the property.

Yeh.

I’m no patronising ye at all.

That’s good.

Christ that’s the last thing I’d do.

Anyway, let’s change the subject.

Ye keep saying I’m patronising ye man, and I’m no.

Just let’s change the subject.

Fuck sake. Fin shook his head.

Just the now, ye know, cause of my mother and that.

I’m sorry.

Derek nodded. Want a whisky or something?

No really, naw.

I feel like one. . Look Fin it was a fucking brainstorm what I did. Just fucking stupidity, right. That’s all it was. The stuff was lying there and it was an empty room. I’m no even sure now if it wasni a prank. A prank, know what I mean. Maybe it was. I canni even remember. Total stupidity.

But what are mothers for eh! I left it for her to sort out. Derek smiled. When I didni know what to do next, I left it for her; the stuff Fin, I left it on the bed. I got off my mark. I couldni handle it. But it didni break her heart. In fact she was quite a wise auld dame. Quite shrewd. Quite shrewd. . Derek stopped to breathe in. He smiled again, took off the hat and footered with the brim. After she returned them the stuff Peterson went up to see her.

I heard that.

He told her I was a silly boy but they wereni gonni press charges.

Cheeky bastard.

Wish to fuck I’d just dumped the stuff.

That woulda really done it, they only had it on loan.

Yeh! I woulda taken that into consideration! Derek shook his head: Fucking indignity but eh fucking indignity — the whole thing.

Fin was silent for a moment, then he said: Some of them probably still hate ye for it ye know, stealing their thunder as potential rebels.

A legend in my own lifetime eh, Sydney Devine.

Fin chuckled.

Imagine influencing a generation but, think I’ll go and impress that lassie in the black tights. Derek put the hat back on his head: Sure ye dont want a short?

Uch okay, if ye’re having one.

Whisky?

Aye.

As Derek walked to the bar he could see the phone being used, a guy talking into it. Once it was free he would try Audrey’s number again — better now before the drink started hitting. He put both hands on the edge of the bar, shifting his stance; maybe go for a curry after, he was bloody hungry as well.

The barmaid came past and he called for two whiskies. Glenmorangies, he said, would ye make it doubles. . She turned to the gantry without acknowledging him, sticking the first glass up under the optic.

The phone was now available. He knew the Plymouth code. Would she be home! Of course. Unless she was out. He scratched at his ear, his finger nudging the brim of the hat. For some reason the woman was off serving somebody else. She had the second Glenmorangie poured but she had left it on the gantry shelf.

It was a pint of Guinness she was attending to, she must have been waiting for it to settle before topping it up, at which point he had come in with his order for the two whiskies. So now she was finishing the previous customer. Nothing wrong with that. He reached for the jug of water, poured a fair amount into the tumbler. It looked sickly. He wasni a whisky drinker. That was just that. He shouldni have ordered it. Impressing Fin. Doubles as well. Fucking typical. Foolish. But he was foolish. That’s exactly what he was. A foolish young man. Not a boy. A man. At his age and in his situation he was no longer entitled to call himself a boy, not even a foolish one, not even in his own head, especially in his own head. That was another fact of life.

Five pound sixty, said the barmaid, the second Glenmorangie in front of him.

Five pound sixty. . wwh! He got the money out, gave her a tenner. He raised the whisky to his lips while she was getting him the change. But he didnt drink any. It wouldnt be refreshing. Refreshing is the last thing it would be. There wasnt any drink that would be refreshing now, except tea, a cup of tea. With two sugars. He closed his eyes, smiling, but not at anything in particular.