The Burn (24 page)

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.