Unbearable Lightness of Scones

80. Let Us Now Praise a Rather Infamous Man

Angus, crammed into a crowded pew with Matthew and eight other people, watched as an elderly man in a black suit walked up to a lectern and cleared his throat.

“I have been asked,” said the man, “to say a few words about the man to whom we have all come to say farewell: Aloysius Ignatius Xavier O’Connor. RIP.

“I was Aloysius’s teacher and that is why I am standing here talking to you today. It is not something, I should point out, that any teacher relishes – that he should speak at the funeral of one of his pupils. It should be the other way round. But life has a way of turning things on their heads, and the old may on occasion have to say goodbye to the young.

“Young Lard – I mean, Aloysius – well, perhaps I should call him by the name that everybody knew him by. And I don’t think that he would mind unduly. So I shall call him Lard. Young Lard was a funny wee boy when I first taught him. He had that look in his eye that you get to know as a teacher – the look that says: I’m going to be out of the ordinary. Many of you will remember Father Joe, such a character himself, and a good man. I remember his saying to me, ‘That wee boy will make his mark, so he will.’ And he did, of course.

“Lard was not always easy when he was a wee boy – and I think he’d be the first to admit that. He was very keen on borrowing things, and I often had to go round to the O’Connor house and remind him to return things he had borrowed from the school. But he always helped me to carry them back to the school, and his mother always made me a fine cup of tea when I called on those errands.

“He was very popular with the other boys, and he remained well-liked by others for the rest of his life. When he was at Polmont, he always helped the younger boys find their way about the place and settle in. He could not abide bullying, and there was many a bully who was hospitalised by Lard. But he always took them flowers in the hospital afterwards, which shows the sort of man he was. In that great frame of his there beat a generous heart.

“And how many people benefited from Lard’s generosity? When I retired from the school, years after Lard had left it, he came round to the school office and left me a present. It was a set of keys to a car, which he wanted me to have for my retirement. What a gesture that was. And the fact that there was a small dispute later about that car in no way took away from his thoughtfulness and his generosity. That was Lard all over.

“Some people may have had their differences with Lard over the years. There are some who say he cut corners. All that may be true, but on a day like this, we should not remember the bad things a man may have done, but we should remember the good. If Lard has anything to answer for – and, like the rest of us, he was not perfect – then he will answer for it in another place. He will no doubt ask for forgiveness and he will receive it, for that is what we are taught, and that is what we believe. So let none of us go from this place thinking ill of Aloysius Ignatius Xavier O’Connor, but thinking rather of his many acts of kindness, his humour, the joy he brought to those who loved him. And may there grow on his grave spring flowers from those memories. Spring flowers.”

There was complete silence as the teacher stepped away from the lectern and made his way back to his seat. At the back of the church, which was filled to the very last pew, a man cleared his throat, coughed. The priest stood up, and the rustle of his vestments was amplified by the microphone he wore attached to his front. Angus looked at Matthew; both had been moved by this oration. Matthew thought: What a kind man that teacher is, and Angus thought: That is what makes this city.

They stood to sing a hymn, and the priest said a final prayer. Then it was over, and Lard, resting on a trolley bedecked with flowers, was wheeled out of the church, out into the light.

Waiting while the crowd of mourners filed out of the church, Matthew looked at the faces. There were a number of scars: scars across cheeks, nicks across the forehead. There were signs of all the hardness to which parts of Glasgow were well-accustomed; which it joked about and made light of, even in a perverse way; but which had cut deep, deep into its soul. This was the funeral of a gangster who happened to be Catholic; the funeral of a Protestant gangster would have involved the same sort of people: no difference.

And outside, people stood and chatted, shook hands, comforted one another. The light was bright, shafts of sunlight shone through clouds that had parted to bathe the city in patches of silver and gold. In a few minutes rain might drift in over the Atlantic, veils of it falling over this place, but for now it was dry.

Lard lay in glory in a glass-sided hearse to which a black, plumed horse had been yoked. He lay surrounded by flowers, great wreaths spelling out messages from friends and family. LARD said one; and another, BIG MAN, and QUALITY. And then there was the biggest wreath of all, which simply said: DEID.

“I think that we should get back to Queen Street,” said Angus.

Matthew agreed. He had been strangely moved by the service and he did not want to break the spell.

They started to move down the path that led from the church to the road, but they were stopped by a squat man in a black overcoat.

“Youse ra boys frae Edinburgh?” he asked.

“We are,” said Angus.

“Youse still got Lardie’s painting?”

Matthew glanced at Angus. “Yes, I suppose we have.”

The squat man seemed relieved. “Well I’m Frankie O’Connor, Lard’s wee brother. I’ll come through and pick it up next week, if that’s all right wi’ youse. Better be.”

“Of course,” said Matthew. “And I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Thank you,” said Frankie. “But he had it coming to him, so he did.”