The Walk Home Read online

  Brenda was proud of him. Didn’t matter what her father said. Eric had built himself a fine life, and it was only what he deserved. He had a fine brain, the best in the family, and he’d known to make the most of his abilities. Brenda had repaid his childhood love with her loyalty, and she still kept a picture Eric had drawn for her, on the wall in the hallway.

  It was pencil and fine, of her as a Mum, with all her boys. They were all in a row, eating ice-creams that Eric had bought them, with a baby asleep in a pushchair at the bottom of his close steps. The baby was Graham, and Stevie had had a hard time believing it, the first few times she’d shown him: that small and sleeping bundle was his big Da.

  In the drawing, her boys were standing on Eric’s close steps, and they weren’t like any Stevie had climbed this morning. Sandstone, not concrete, they were wide and curved at the tops, with smart iron railings, painted black to match the front door.

  “Where’s that then? Where’s Uncle Eric’s house?” Stevie asked her now.

  “He stays in Glasgow,” Brenda told him. “Not so far.”

  But still, it was nowhere near the rest of them, and she saw how it must seem strange to Stevie, that Eric wasn’t on the Drumchapel rounds; the one person in the family they never went and visited.

  All that distance. And all the grief that brought it about. Brenda thought it was Papa Robert’s doing.

  “My faither,” Brenda started. “He tellt us our faimly were blown over fae Ireland. By storms that werenae our makin, aye? An he reckoned we were better than where we landed.”

  He set a high bar for both his children: school and work were a means for getting on in life. Even Drumchapel was, in its own way, the new house in the new housing scheme. Papa Robert said they’d come through, if they knew their worth, in time, with faith. The thought gave Brenda an ache.

  She could see her grandson trying to make sense of it: Eric’s close steps, and how he was the best in the family, and now he lived somewhere far across Glasgow. Brenda thought it should have made Papa Robert glad, what Eric did with his life; Eric had come through, by anyone’s lights. Except her father’s. He said Eric had forgotten his family in the process, and all they should have meant to him. The way Papa Robert saw it, his son had turned his back on them.

  “What’s goin on here then?”

  Malky was up. He was standing behind them in the hallway, a bit sour at being woken, but it was a relief to have her train of thought broken, even so. Malky looked from Brenda to Stevie, and then:

  “Let me guess, son,” he said. “She on about her Da?”

  He shook his head.

  “Papa Robert, an how he’d been abandoned.” Malky had heard it all before, too many times. “The old guy poured our ears full, so he did.”

  He laughed, but not like he was happy to be minded. Malky was talking to their grandson, but Brenda knew it was for her benefit when he bent down and whispered to Stevie, like he was letting him in on a secret:

  “I grew up here an aw, son, an I learned quick, like everywan did. Drumchapel was where you landed when you fell off the edge ae Glasgow. Papa Robert should ae watched his step. It’s a steep climb back up. Every man tae hissel.”

  Malky never blamed Eric for making the break, any more than Brenda did, but he thought all this was old ground, and they’d trodden it far too often as it was.

  His piece said, he straightened up, lifting Stevie into his arms for a hug. And then he and Brenda both looked at their grandson, all muddled and looking back at them.

  Malky threw her a glance: enough now.

  And Brenda nodded: aye, right enough.

  But he was right enough about Drumchapel as well. So she told him, in closing:

  “Dinnae say aw that tae Lindsey, will you?”

  “Ach.” Malky waved a hand. “She knows it anyhow. The girl’s no stupit.”

  Early morning, first July Saturday, and Stevie’s Dad lifted him from his bed. Just getting light, he pressed a finger to his mouth, like this was only for the two of them to know.

  “We’ll let your Maw sleep, aye?”

  He carried Stevie down the quiet close and out, where the shadows were long and cool across the scheme streets. The pavements they walked down were empty at first, but they started filling up with folk, the further they got down the roads. They were coming out of their closes in smart coats and jackets, or they had flags wrapped round their shoulders; Stevie saw red, white and blue, and red lions too for Rangers. All of them were blinking in the dawn light, and headed the same way, and it seemed like his Dad was headed that way as well, because Stevie felt him picking up his pace, the further on they walked, falling in with the folk that were becoming a crowd.

  He’d never seen as many out on the scheme before, not all at once like this; the pavements so full now, people were spilling off the kerbstones and into the road, skipping past each other to overtake.

  They turned the last corner where the flats all ended and the street widened out, and then it seemed like hundreds of folk, all lining the road, and scattering across the grassy slope on the far side.

  Stevie saw more flags here, and not just wrapped about shoulders, but draped from on high too, from out the tenement windows. All the folk around him were on tiptoes and craning their necks, looking and pointing, this way and that. It was like they were waiting for something to start, but Stevie’s Dad was still going, pressing his way on through the throng, past a low white building with a black roof. He said:

  “That’s the Orange Halls. Look out for the bands now.”

  He tapped at Stevie’s knees, like this was the best part, and he told him that’s what they’d come for.

  “Tae see them off, aye?”

  Stevie’s Dad lifted him, arms full stretch, high over all the heads, so then he could see there were men on the road. They were all in uniform and getting into rows, and they looked a bit like soldiers, only they had accordions hanging from their shoulders. Some were holding flutes or strapping on drums, and a few were smiling, but most kept their faces sharp too, like something was coming.

  “We’re just in time, son. They’ll be massed aw round Glasgow by now, ready tae head for town.”

  There were other men behind the band: whole ranks of dark jackets with orange and gold draped about their collars.

  “That’s wan ae the lodges,” Stevie’s Dad said. “It’s Papa Robert’s old wan.”

  And Stevie saw no smiles there, just eyes front and shoulders squared, but he couldn’t help himself staring; it was the way they looked, all proud and solemn, behind the crown on a cushion carried by the front man.

  “Papa Robert used tae carry that. He said it was the day in the year he stood tall. Same as his Da did, back in Ireland.”

  Stevie looked at the old men, standing like their fathers, while his own Dad told him he reckoned it was the music made people take notice; everyone in the city.

  “Every lodge has a band, see? Tae play on the Walk. An they’ll march in fae the four compass corners ae Glasgow. So there’s aye mair folk, comin thegether, till it’s wan huge parade, aye? Right through the middle ae town. It’s a fine sight, so it is.”

  Stevie couldn’t imagine more people than this. He watched a banner raised on the slope, West of Glasgow Star of Hope, and how it took three men to lift it. Heavy cloth on sturdy poles, all gleaming brass and glossy ropes, with another coming up not far behind it. The parade was getting longer, topped by swaying tapestries of kings on white horseback, or torn-faced men of the cloth, and at the far end there were more flutes and drums.

  But then Stevie’s Dad lifted him down again, so all he could see was crowd: legs and elbows and forearms. There were men all around them, all pressed around Stevie’s Dad, smiling and clapping him on the back, and Stevie thought they were maybe his uncles, but then he didn’t know the faces when he looked up. His Dad did, though; it was like he knew everyone. He was shaking all their hands, while they were telling him about a band: where they’d been playing over the
summer. Stevie heard place names, Derry and Corby and County Antrim, that didn’t mean anything to him, but it sounded like his Dad had been to all of them maybe, only a long time ago now.

  “Havenae seen you in ages, pal.”

  “Have a talk tae Shug, aye?”

  They said he was still in charge, and that he was out there on the road beyond the crowd.

  “He’ll have you back in the ranks, nae bother.”

  But then there was music, all of a sudden: sharp raps on the snares, and Stevie felt the whole crowd turn.

  Folk around him started to sing. It is old but it is beautiful, and its colours they are fine; Stevie heard Derry and Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne. It made the hairs rise at Stevie’s nape, a prickling thrill that spread across his scalp. More voices joining in now, on all sides, singing about the bygone days of yore. And on the Twelfth I love tae wear the sash my father wore. A cheer went through the crowd as the last notes sounded, and then folk all around him were pushing forwards. The bands were walking, and everyone walking with them, and Stevie was pulled along on that surge, half pulled off his feet. Until his Dad was there and catching hold of his elbows, drawing him close, under the call of the whistling flutes.

  It was a high sound, and it had Stevie’s arms up, jumping to be lifted. His Dad was smiling, like he knew that feeling, and he raised Stevie up again, onto his shoulders: out from the crush and into the air, to hear the sounds and watch the colours.

  “We saw the bands off, Maw!”

  Stevie’s Mum was out of bed, but she wasn’t happy when they got back. She stood in the kitchen, looking daggers at his Dad.

  “Just for old time’s sake, aye?” his Dad told her, stopping by the fridge, but she turned her back on him, spreading her toast.

  “They’re my pals, Lin,” he said. “They’re just down the road an I never see them.”

  “Well you’ve got us now.”

  Stevie’s Mum cut him off, like she wouldn’t hear another word.

  It made Stevie nervy, how his Mum could be so sharp, and how his Dad was so quiet then, the whole rest of the morning; fitting the last of the woodwork, too put out to talk. Stevie kept wanting to go and look, just to see that he was still there, but his Mum kept him with her, folding away the washing. She said: “He’ll be all right, son.”

  Only like she wasn’t too sure herself.

  And then, a bit later:

  “He can’t help who our neighbours are.”

  She took Stevie to find him in the big room, while he was packing up. And she told him:

  “The place looks grand now.”

  Like she was saying thank you, or maybe sorry too.

  Stevie’s Dad shrugged his shoulders, so Stevie knew he’d heard her, even if he kept his head down over his tool box. She stepped forward and hooked her fingers into one of his back pockets.

  “We all right, aye? Graham? Me and you.”

  It was just what Stevie wanted to know. So he was glad when his Dad nodded.

  “Course.”

  Of course they were.

  They spent a whole long Sunday afternoon just painting the skirting boards: both bent and kneeling on opposite sides of the hallway, a can of beer passed between them while the radio sang out pop songs from the kitchen. Stevie lay on his belly with his cars, listening to their talk, of next week, next month, all the time to come. His Dad adding up his wages, and what they could afford next, his Mum deciding on a second-hand washing machine. She said:

  “Even if it costs. We can always take it with us when we find a decent place.”

  Only then she sat back and groaned.

  “Oh for crying out loud. How’d you stop it from dripping?”

  She pointed at her painting efforts, the creamy gloss all streaked with dribbles, and looked to Stevie’s Dad for help. He was ahead of her, a good couple of metres, but he shuffled back and took her brush, telling her gentle:

  “Gies it here now. Look.”

  He showed her: steady movements, up and down and back and forth, working and working at the same part till it stayed smooth. It made Stevie’s Mum smile, how well he did it.

  “See that?” She pulled at Stevie’s elbow. “You watch your Da, son.”

  “Aye right.” Stevie’s Dad smiled at them. “Yous sit an watch while I dae aw the work.”

  He finished his side ages before her, then went ahead into the big room. Stevie stayed in the hallway, close to his Mum, so he heard the note of pride when she told him:

  “He could get work anywhere, your Da. If he wanted.”

  Brush in hand, she said it like she was thinking out loud:

  “Big houses, where they pay good wages. South Side, West End.”

  She listed places. Not the same ones his Dad had been to with his band. She said:

  “Edinburgh, maybe.”

  Blinking at Stevie, but it was like she was looking beyond him.

  “We could maybe go to London.”

  Then she turned her face back to her boards, back at her painting, making it nice now.

  Stevie’s Dad could lift his Mum up like she weighed nothing. He did that when he came in from work of an evening: she’d go to the door when she heard it open, and then he’d pick her up and hoist her over his shoulder, carry her through the flat while she slapped at his back, shrieking and glad, until he tumbled her off onto the big bedroom mattress. They could lie there for ages, folded tight, the pair of them together.

  On work days his Dad would mostly be gone by the time Stevie woke up. His Mum said he was working all hours for them, and she’d already be dressed when she came in his bedroom, but she let Stevie drift a bit longer, speaking to him quiet, opening his curtains; and she’d brush out her hair then, standing by the window. It was the only times he saw her hair loose, and the long strands floated up into the air around her shoulders, while she worked through the knots and her eyes went soft, off into the distance.

  From Stevie’s bedroom, you could see the whole top part of the scheme, just about. There were always more boarded windows, and Stevie’s Mum counted them while she brushed, pointing out the new ones, telling him folk were only too happy to flit. Then she’d plait her hair with quick fingers and tie the end off with a tight loop of elastic.

  On clear days you could see down as far as Glasgow: the big Clyde river and all the cranes at the shipyards. And the planes too, that rose over the city, on their way far and wide. Stevie’s Mum stood and watched them some mornings, even after she’d finished with her hair, and it was like she got stuck there, same look in her grey eyes as when she was painting the skirting boards. Until she told him:

  “We’re sitting it out, son.”

  Nodding at the view, saying that’s what they had in the meantime.

  On days it was raining when she got him out of bed, Stevie’s Mum would say they could stop in the flat until nursery, and she’d pull the big chair over to the window in the living room. She’d put the telly on too, and tuck him into her lap, but mostly she watched the drips on the glass. From there they could see over the golf course and out, to the Kilpatrick Hills: soft peaks that rose beyond the scheme, and when the sun came, Stevie could see the cloud shadows she watched, on the green-grey slopes. One time she said they were just like the hills behind her father’s house. But she wasn’t like Stevie’s Gran, she never told long stories, she just said that her Dad was his Grandad:

  “Your other one. But you’re all right, love. I reckon he’s far enough away from us.”

  Stevie thought he sounded further away than Uncle Eric. But he’d worked it out by then: there was family you saw daily, and family you just didn’t. Stevie loved the family he had anyhow. Especially when his Mum said:

  “It’s the three of us, right? Me, you, your Da. That’s who counts.”

  Stevie listened to the sound of his Mum and Dad talking some nights, after they’d put him to bed; a soft murmur under the drone of the telly. They’d lie wrapped up together on the sofa, Stevie knew, because if he
couldn’t sleep, he’d sometimes get out of bed and climb onto the cushions with them. It was the best place to drop off, slotted against his Mum, with his Dad’s big arm across them both.

  6

  Eric turned up late for the party. It was in full swing when Brenda pulled him in, and now he was perched with her at one of the corner tables, in the suit he used to wear for work, his nerves scratching away at his throat.

  He’d not seen Graham in however long—years—and it was hard to credit the boy was married, even if the pub was packed with folk come to celebrate. Brenda was over the moon about the wedding. So many scheme folk had said it wouldn’t last, when they saw the girl fresh from the boat and pregnant. Odds were laid on her back in Ireland with the baby within a twelvemonth, but now here they were, Graham and Lindsey, five years on and still going strong; better than ever. It was the girl who’d been keen to mark it, by all accounts: she’d done most of the organising. Brenda said it had given a lift to all their lives, and she’d been on at Eric to be here ever since she’d brought round the invitation. She’d stood it on his mantelpiece and told him:

  “You’re no duckin out ae this wan.”

  Only he thought that’s exactly what he should have done.

  Folk were three deep at the bar, and Malky had gone to get the drinks in. It seemed like he’d been gone ages, and there were so many faces Eric couldn’t place but had the feeling he should. They might be his nephews’ wives, or their children: Brenda’s grandkids dressed up in their best jeans for a night off the scheme.

  Eric had combed his hair for the occasion, but he’d seen it needed cut. Yellow at the front from his fags, and curling over his collar at the back: hard to keep track of appearances since he’d taken retirement. Two decades a widower, and now a year out of the workaday routine, Eric dug in his pockets for a cigarette, thinking how he wasn’t used to company any more, let alone family. Brenda was the only one he saw these days.