My Temporary Life (11 page)

The fact that Hextall recovered quickly and was probably back swinging his cane within a day or two is irrelevant. We’re told over and over again that I’m not welcome back at Kilmarnock Secondary. The headmaster wryly adds that a decision on my future will be made as quickly as possible, hopefully within a few months.

They’re stalling, that much is obvious. My Dad tries explaining in his calm, reasonable manner, but it’s useless; they’ve already made up their mind. I’m six months short of turning 15, and I have precious few options.

I tell my Dad everything. I tell him about Hextall and his cane, and Douglas and McGregor, and I watch as his teeth clench together when I tell him about Hardly and the iron. He takes time off work to contact the other schools, and then calls me to the phone when he finds a sympathetic ear that will listen to my side of the story. He’s tireless going up and down the stairs to the neighbours’ house, with his two pence pieces in his hand, to drop beside the phone as payment. After a while I can’t do it anymore. I can’t stand beside him listening to the same story over and over again, of my misfortunate elbow to the chest of Master Hextall. I stay downstairs, in our house, and sit rubbing my knuckles, enjoying the fact that my own pain is some kind of a punishment for what I’ve done.

It’s two days of phone calls and climbing stairs, before he comes into the living room and sits with me, looking as though he’s given up. At first I think that perhaps he’s angry with me but it’s not that. He’s just tired, very tired, and scratching his head, he slumps into the big armchair, facing me.

“
I have some news, Malcolm. There is a school, not here, but there is a school and I have it sorted out, temporarily, only temporarily.” He’s facing me as I sit on the couch and looks about as glum as I’ve ever seen him. He keeps looking at me, and then looking away as though he’s not quite sure what to say. I just wait. I know my Dad. The words will come.

“
I’ve spoken to George.” The silence that comes after George’s name hangs in the air between us. “He’s arranged your admission into a school in Canada. He’s very fond of you, Malcolm. He wants to help you.” My Dad pauses, and draws air into his mouth before continuing. “He wants to help us.”

Before I can ask the question, he anticipates me, and answers it himself. “Your mother is not involved in this, and will not be involved in any of it. George, and I have sorted out the financial details, and he’s looking forward to seeing you. He’ll make all the arrangements, on a temporary basis, Malcolm, only temporary.” He’s staring at the worn-out pattern on the carpet that lies between us, looking up from time to time to make sure that I’m still listening. I can hear the clock ticking in the background, although I don’t remember ever hearing it before. The lines in his forehead crinkle and he’s holding tight to the seat cushion and nodding as though he’s convincing himself that it’s the right thing to do.

It’s not until he looks up and stares at me, that I realize he’s crying. He has a glassy look in his eyes and he keeps blinking, trying not to acknowledge the tears, while I hold my face hard, trying not to breathe, trying not to cry.

“
Dad, I could go to work. I could go to work with you or wait it out and then try next year. I could...” I have to stop talking or I’ll sob. I hold my head in my hands, and try to breathe, try to think. I just need to think.

“
You have this,” he points to his head as he talks to me. “You have this gift, Malcolm. You’re no like us. You think. You know things. You have to use that. It’s a gift, Malcolm, it’s a gift.” I know this look, the look on his face. It’s the same look he had when my mother left us years ago. He’s somewhere between pain and anger right now. He raises his voice slightly and I know what he’s doing. I know that he thinks it’s the best thing to do. “We’re no gonna waste it. We will not squander that gift.”

Although there are things I like about Canada, it’s still not home. It’s just a place that I go to in the summer. It’s the place that I go to because of the divorce agreement.

“
And, you’ll come here for your university. They have no choice but to take you to the school of your choice then. You keep getting good marks and they have to let you in. Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, we’ll look at all of them and then you can decide. Then you’ll come back. And in between you’ll be here for Christmases and summers and whatever else we can afford. With the new job it’ll be easier, much easier to get you home.”

He’s right. Scotland will have to take me back for my university schooling and of course they’ll have to pay for it too. Terry has told me how expensive university is in Canada and was amazed when I explained to him that in Scotland anyone who maintains a certain grade level attends university at no cost. For a brief moment I think about the private academy that Terry attends but I know that it isn’t an option. My Dad’s new job may have changed our financial position but it still doesn’t put us in the same league as Bill and Terry Allister.

Before I can ask him when I’ll be leaving, he answers me. “Soon, son, next week, next week, as long as I can get you on a flight.”

I have my head hung down, not wanting to look at him or anything else right now, and when I look up; he has moved over and is sitting beside me on the couch. He pulls my head to his chest, holding us both tight. His tears and my frustration are gone now, and it feels as though we’ve resolved to doing whatever it is that we have to do. I can hear his breathing and take comfort in it. I remember as a young child, sitting on his lap, trying to match my breaths with his, never being able to match his rhythm. I dread the thought of another plane, another place to live, a different school, and more awkward places to try and fit in. I just sit there and listen to the two of us breathing, thinking about how difficult it must have been for my Dad to make that call to George.

I think about the movie of my life that plays in my head and I realize that there is one last thing that I have to do before I leave, one last thing that’s been heavy on my mind since that last day at school. “I want to see Hardly. I want to see him before I go, Dad.”

As he straightens up, he has just the trace of a little smile, the same kind of little smile that I had when I was jumping down the bleachers, trying to make my way to Stuart Douglas. My Dad has two voices. There is the voice that he uses to talk to the Masters and Headmasters on the telephone, and then there’s his street voice. This is the one he uses when he answers me and talks about visiting Hardly’s house. “That’s a good idea son, I’ll come too. We’ll go the night and I’ll come ower there with ye. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Rab.”

Growing up, before my Mother left, my parents would take me for walks through the streets of Kilmarnock, through our neighbourhood. We’d pass Taylor Avenue, Craigmore Avenue, Longpark Avenue, and they’d tell me who lived in the houses that we’d pass. They’d tell me about the boys and girls, who later became men and women, that they went to school with, and show me their houses. They’d tell me which ones they liked, and which ones that I should avoid. They’d tell me about the women who married young, and the women who were left alone when their husbands ran away in the middle of the night. We’d pass the houses where the boys lived who stole things that they later claimed, ‘fell off the back of a truck’. And, they’d tell me stories about girls setting fire to their homes, sometimes by mistake, or sometimes desperately trying to get some attention. None of the stories are unique. It’s just a poor neighbourhood, and it’s just the way that it is. We all know each other, and the common feelings of hate and indifference and I suppose, sometimes love, linger between the relationships that hold all our houses together.

My Dad knows Rab, Hardly’s father. I don’t know how and I don’t ask. I assume that it’s through their school days, or from playing fitba in the streets as children, or it might even be from work. When he chaps on the door of Hardly’s house, it isn’t a friendly tap, but more of the type of knock that you would make if you were trying to break a door down. An older, larger, version of Hardly immediately comes to the door, and he looks every bit as angry as I’d imagined him to look.

“
Rab.”

“
Alex.”

We stand that way for a moment with the two men looking at each other, and I stare at their expressions while trying to pretend that I’m not actually staring at their expressions. My Dad looks steadfast and firm with the same little smile that I recognize from earlier, while Hardly’s father’s goes from anger to curiosity before he finally says something.

“
These two lads, Alex, getting up to too much bloody trouble, too much trouble. We’ll have the polis roond here next. You mind, it’ll be the polis next.”

“
I huv tae apologize tae ye Rab. I really dae. I really have no been a very guid neighbour at all. Here oor two boys are friends, and I havenae been by to see you at all.” My Dad’s street voice is in full force, and his Scots accent is as thick as I’ve ever heard it. His expression doesn’t change. He just keeps standing there and smiling, waiting.

“
Oh, that isnae necessary, Alex. They’re just lads, just wee lads. I’ll get him the noo.” He turns his head and yells into the hallway behind him, “Boy, oot here, company’s here, get yerself oot here.”

Hardly squeezes through the narrow space between his father and the door opening, and when he sees me, he nods, and we leave the two men, and walk to the edge of the street.

My father’s voice is loud and firm as he keeps apologizing to Rab. “I mean it, Rab, I’m gonna change my ways. I’m here to tell you that even though my son is leaving for Canada next week, I’m no gonna neglect yours. In fact, I’m gonna come and see him once a week, every week.”

Hardly and I leave the two men and walk to the edge of the pavement, and sit on the kerb. When we look back, we see that my Dad has his finger tapping solidly into Rab’s chest, emphasizing his point.

“
You dae understand what I’m saying to you, don’t you, Rab? I’m gonna be here every week, just making sure that your lad is happy enough and doing okay.”

The door slams, and as my Dad passes us, his eyes flicker for a moment when he sees Hardly’s battered face. He tells him that he’ll see him next week, and that he’ll see me back at the house. I want to smile or even laugh. I know what my Dad is doing. It’s like sweeping out the area under the stairs, or making our lunches for the week, days in advance. It’s one more duty that he’ll fulfill. He’s a creature of habit, and when he says that he’ll do something, he does it. I know without a doubt that one week from now, and every week until Hardly leaves, on his fifteenth birthday, he’ll be knocking on Rab’s door, asking to see his son. I don’t know if it’ll make any difference or not, but I want to pretend that it will. I want it to be easy. I want it to be fixed. I just want the problem to go away.

I know that Hardly wanted to speak as soon as he heard my Dad mention that I was leaving for Canada, but he doesn’t. He waits until he’s gone and we’re alone, still sitting on the kerb, in front of his house. “Canada, again, then? It’s Canada for ever now, is it? They really arenae gonna let you back in tae the school?” He’s grimacing and smiling at me at the same time, leaning forward then back, bobbing up and down to his own secret rhythm.

“
It might just be temporary. My Dad says that it might be just for a while.” I know it’s a lie, and I’m sure he does too, but I say it anyways, as much for my sake as for his.

There’s a boy throwing stones down the street, one by one, watching them skite down the road and bounce against the kerb. We watch him for a while, and I wonder how many of the broken windows in the houses that surrounds us were caused by him.

“
We could write. I could write to you, and you could write back. My Dad would pick up the letters when he comes to see you.”

Hardly looks at me and smiles, his face breaking into a broad grin. “You don’t write letters, Malcolm, and neither do I, so let’s no talk about any letters.”

The boy with the stones is moving on now. He’s yelling to a couple of other boys who are farther down the road. He doesn’t swear, but the coarseness in his words is enough to make us sit up straight and take notice. They move in gangs, these poor boys of the streets. They recognize the desperation in each other and the need to keep moving, the need to keep throwing stones and breaking windows and stealing from houses.

I need to give him something, even if it’s another lie. I need to give him something that will take away that look of fear and dread from his face. “Well, there’s the army or wherever you end up. Once you get settled you can always try and come for a visit. You could come out to see me in Canada.”

He pauses for a minute and we hear the smashing of a window farther down the street, then the laughter from the boy who was throwing stones in front of us earlier, and his cohorts. I don’t want his usual depressing response. I want him to buy into it. I want him to at least pretend for a moment or two, and, to my surprise, he does. “Aye, Malcolm, I’ll come and see you. Once I get settled in the Army, I’ll come ower to Canada and give you a visit. I’ll look forward to that.”