The Burn (19 page)

My mother was a talker, he said, God rest her she was a good auld stick. I liked my father but I have to admit it I loved my mother. She used to sing too. She’s been dead for fifteen
years. Fifteen years. A long time without your maw eh? I was just turned twenty-five when it happened. A long time ago.

The lassie smiled.

You’re smiling, he said, but it’s true. He tapped ash onto the floor and scraped the heel of his shoe over it, then inhaled deeply. He had loved his mother. It was funny to think
that, but he had. And he missed her. Here he was a grown man, forty years of age, and he still missed his mammy. So what but? People do die. It’s the way things are. Nobody can change it. The
march of progress.

I dont believe in after-lives, he said, and I dont bloody believe in before-lives. Being honest about it I dont believe in any of your bloody through-the-looking-glass-lives at all. And that
includes whatever you call it, Buddhism or Mohammedism or whatever the hell. There’s the here and there’s the now. Mind you, I’m no saying there’s no a God, I’m just
no saying there is one. What I will bloody say is I’m no very interested, one way or the other. What about yourself?

O . . . She smiled for a moment then she frowned almost immediately; she dragged on her cigarette and let the smoke out in a cloud. Then she dragged on it again but this time inhaled.

He shrugged. It’s alright if you’re no wanting to speak, I know how things are. Dont worry about it. Anyway, I’m doing enough chattering for the two of us! One thing but I will
say – correct me if I’m wrong – your politics, they’re like my own, we’re both to the left. Eh?

She nodded very slightly, giving a very quick smile. Probably she was a wee bit suspicious. And if she wasnt she should’ve been; especially nowadays. Because you just never know who
you’re talking to. He gazed at her. There was something the . . .

And then he felt like giving her a kiss. It was so sudden and what an urge he had to turn away.

And he felt so sorry for her. He really did. He felt so sorry for her. How come he felt so sorry for her? It was almost like he was going to burst out greeting! How come? How come it was
happening? He gulped a couple of times and took a puff on the fag, then another one. God. He bit on his lower lip; he stared across the bar to where a conversation was on the go between some guys
he knew – just from drinking in here but, he didnt know them from outside – and didnt really want to either. Nothing amazing, he just found it difficult being in their company, it was a
bit boring, if he had to be honest, nothing against them, the guys themselves. What was up? What was wrong? He blinked, he kept his eyelids shut for several moments.

A tiny wee amount of gin and orangeade was left in her glass. She was obviously trying to make it last for as long as possible. And she wouldnt allow him to buy her another. That was for
definite. It was a thing about females. She was looking at the clock. That was another thing about them! Women! God! Strange people! He grinned at the lassie: Yous women! Yous’re so different
from us! Yous really are! Yous’re so different!

She gazed at him.

Yous are but honest.

In what way?

O Christ in every way.

She nodded.

I mind when my daughter started her period if you dont mind me saying – I felt dead sorry for her. No kidding. Know how? Because she wasnt going to be a boy! He shook his head,
smiling.

That’s awful.

Naw, he said, what I mean . . .

But she had looked away from him in such a style that he stopped what it was he was going to say. Along the counter the woman serving was setting pints up for a group of young blokes who had
just come in. He said, I dont mean it the way it sounds. The exact same thing happens with a pet, a wee kitten or a wee puppy, when it’s newborn and it’s just like any baby . . .

I dont want to hear this.

Naw but. . .

She shook her head. I dont want to hear it.

Aye but you dont know what I’m going to say.

I dont want to hear it. She smiled, then set her face straight, stubbed her fag out in the ashtray.

He had just been wanting to tell her how the things he liked as a boy he had wanted his wee lassie to get involved in, because he knew she would enjoy them, that’s all; nothing else,
things like football and climbing trees, jumping the burn; nothing special, the usual, the usual crap, just the things boys did. Of course she would go on and do the things lassies did and she
would enjoy them. He knew that. That was what happened. And it was fine. But it wasnt the point. It was something else, to do with a feeling, an emotional thing. Surely you had to be allowed
that?

He indicated her near-empty glass. D’you want a drink?

No thanks.

He smiled.

I’m going in a minute.

He smiled again. There’s barriers between us, the sexes. But what you cannot deny is that we’re drawn to one another. We are: we’re drawn to one another. There’s bonds of
affection. And solidarity as well, you get solidarity between us – definitely . . . That’s what I think anyhow – course I’m aulder than you . . . When you get to my age you
seem to see things that wee bit clearer.

She looked at him. That’s just nonsense.

I’m no saying you see everything clearer, just some things.

She sighed.

I was reading in a book there about it – it was a woman writer – she was saying how there’s a type of solace you can only receive from the opposite sex, a man from a woman a
woman from a man.

It’s nonsense.

It’s no nonsense at all.

She paused for a moment, then replied, Yes it is. She looked away from him, off in the direction of the group of young blokes, one of whom stared at her. So blatant too, the way he did it. He
just turned and stared at her, then he turned back to his pals. And the lassie shifted the way she was standing. She looked up at the clock and checked the time against her wristwatch.

They keep it quarter of an hour fast, he said. Common practice. A few of the customers complain right enough. But it’s so they can get the doors shut on the button else the polis’ll
come in and do them for being late and they might lose their licence. So they say anyway. Mind you it’s bloody annoying if you’ve come in looking to enjoy a last pint and then they
start shouting at you and start grabbing the glass out your bloody hand. My auld da used to say it was the only business he knew where they threw out their best customers!

She didnt respond.

He grinned. I mean it’s no as if they open quarter of an hour early in the morning! Look eh . . . are you sure I cant buy you one afore you go?

No, thanks.

He nodded.

I’m just leaving.

He never turned up then eh!

No.

Was it your boyfriend?

She shook her head.

D’you mind me asking you something. Are you a student?

Why d’you want to know?

I was just wondering.

Why?

Aw nothing.

She continued looking at him. He felt like he had been given a telling off. For about the third bloody time since she had come in. He swallowed the last of his lager and glanced sideways to see
where the bar staff had got to. And then he said, Do you think it’s possible for men and women to talk in a pub without it being misconstrued?

She paused. I think people should be able to stand at a bar without being pestered.

O you think you’re being pestered? Sorry, I actually thought I was making conversation. That’s how come I was talking to you, it’s what’s commonly known as being
sociable. I didnt know I was pestering you.

She nodded.

Sorry.

It’s just that I think people should be able to stand at the bar if that’s what they want to do.

So do I, he said, so do I. That’s what I think. I mean that’s what I think. My own daughter’s coming up for seventeen you know so I’m no exactly ignorant of the
situation.

The woman behind the counter had reappeared and was looking along in his direction, like she had heard the word ‘pester’ and was just watching to see. He shook his head. It was like
things were getting out of hand; you wanted to shout: Wait a minute! He frowned, then smiled. When he was a wee boy him and his brother and sisters would be right in the middle of a spot of
mischief when suddenly the door would burst open and mammy would be standing there gripping the handle and glowering at them. And they would all be on the confessional stool immediately! She didnt
have to fucking do anything! They’d all just start greeting and then cliping on one another! What a technique she had! It was superb! All she had to do was stand there! Everybody
crumbled.

He grinned, shaking his head, and he called for a pint of lager. For a split second the woman didnt seem to hear him. Then she walked to the tap, started pouring the pint, staring at the lever
very deliberately, as if she was making some sort of point. It was funny. Maybe she was a bit put out about something. Well that was her problem. If you’ve got to start safeguarding the
feelings of everybody you meet on the planet then you’ll have a hard time staying sane.

The lassie wasnt there.

Aye she was but she was across at the group of young guys. They looked like students as well. He didnt have anything against students. Although the danger was aye the same for kids from a
working-class background, that it turned you against your own people. How many of them were forever going away to uni and then turning round and selling themselves to the highest bidder as soon as
they’d got their certificates. Then usually they wound up abroad, if no England then the States or Canada or Australia, or Africa or New Zealand, it was all the same. Then they spent the rest
of their lives keeping other folk down.

One of the young blokes laughed. It would have been easy to take it personally but that would have been stupid. Getting paranoiac is the simplest thing in the world. A gin and orangeade was on
the counter in front of the lassie but she was paying for it out of her own purse. A young guy glanced across. Another one said something. But there was no point seeing it directed at yourself. The
woman behind the bar was away serving another customer. The change back from the money for the pint of lager was lying on the counter. He put his hand out to get it.

So because she couldnt get doing her own work she occupied herself in other ways. What happened is she stayed in her room and started telling wee stories to herself. She did.
That was what she did. Wee stories about her girlhood with outcomes that were different from real life. Usually it was her that was the heroine whereas in real life she had never been the heroine,
and none of her pals had ever been the heroine either. But that didnt matter. Not to her. She never deluded herself. She always knew them for what they were so so what is what she said to herself
as soon as the criticism started, they’re my own stories and nobody else’s so why should I worry about them being true or no, just to suit other people. She did enough worrying without
having to worry about that as well. And with the spare room being hers she could shut the door tight and she could have put a bolt on if she had wanted to. But there was no need.

When her husband was there he tried to get into her mind. It was like he started needing solace or a comfort or something like that. It was funny. As if he thought he would
maybe manage it through her stories, as if he thought that was how to do it, by getting inside her imagination. Because he didnt like his own imagination. That was what he said. But there had to be
more than that even although he said there wasnt.

At first what he did was he started getting her to tell the stories out loud. But that never seemed to work properly. She couldnt do it right except once or twice, and even
then, when she felt she had got close to succeeding he wouldnt believe her. He thought she was making it up, he thought she was just saying the stories succeeded because she was wanting to keep the
real ones secret. He thought there were ‘real stories’ she was keeping secret from him and that was where the solace lay. But this was happening at the stage where there was a coldness
in her towards him anyway so she was quite happy to let him believe she was cheating if that was what he wanted. She felt really that he could believe anything he liked. She was then stopping all
her interest in him. But leaving that apart her stories just werent for him. She didnt like having to share them, especially no with him. It was not like he had been a good man to her. She had
always preferred it when she could go away into her own room and shut fast the door, for he would at least respect that, he would never try to enter unless she invited him. And she stopped inviting
him. By then it had got so she just couldnt abide the idea of him at all, it was excruciating and she couldnt cope with it. She couldnt, she just couldnt cope with it. It was awful. She felt
clammy. It was a creepy feeling. Him sitting there the way he did.

And as well as that if she was not to be allowed to do her own work well she just wasnt going to put up with it, with him being there, not if she wasnt going to be allowed to
do it. She needed to be alone, she needed to shut fast the door and even bolt and snib it if she wanted, if that was what she wanted. But there was no need since he respected it. If he had been a
true bosom partner to her then none of it would have mattered she didnt think, none of it. Even the stories would have been to share. It was just him. Not everybody made her feel like this, just
some.

And she didnt care about his job. She had never cared about it. It was just a dreadful thing and she couldnt hardly imagine it it was so dreadful. Yet in the early days it was
funny how she seemed to spend most of her life dashing about trying to get things right for him. That was really so funny. But she was daft back then, she was young. She used to go all his
messages. She did all the things for him. He always had things needing doing and she used to do them for him. She didnt mind doing them for the reason that she used to like just being outside the
house plus as well what it included, the change of clothes, because she used to put on a new set of clothes when she went outside. She would wait till he was out the road, then she would sneak away
with a hat or a scarf or a nice veil, she would have them tucked in at her elbow or else under her coat.