The Road to Lisbon (16 page)

“This ’cause you split with Debbie?” he asks, squashing the fag butt into the earth with his shoe.

“We haven’t split . . . or at least, I’m gonnae win her back.”

“Maybe you think you’re too good to work for a living.”

“Naw.”

“Well what then? You think we’re all chumps, graftin’? Think we get a buzz out of it? Do we fuck. But we get on with it. And you know what – there’s something good,
something
noble
in sweating for your living.” He clasps his fingers together and stretches his inverted palms outwards. Then he continues: “I work piecemeal, and I work like a
bastard – twice as fast as any other Joe. So I earn more, and I get to buy whatever threads that I want. And before the summer’s out I’ll have bought a new car. Think I might
plump for a Cortina, the 1600 one. And one day I’ll earn enough for a good hoose for me and my wife. What the fuck have you got to offer her? Eh?”

“Offer who, exactly?”

He realises he has become animated, so he pauses and coolly lights another cigarette – always in one motion from a match, then begins again: “Look, let’s get this straight. You
went with Delphine last night. And you and Debbie. It’s ending, isn’t it?”

“Naw!”

He doesn’t reply.

“I mean . . . aye. Prob’ly.”

He clears his throat as he stubs out his cigarette. Inhales. Here it comes.

“One time you asked me if it was alright for you to go out with her. Do you mind?”

“Aye,” I reply, straightening myself up to face him.

Tell me this is not happening.

“Well one day, no today, no tomorrow. Prob’ly no for at least a whole year. But one day, I’m gonnae ask you the same question.”

There is a long pause as the enormity of what he has said sinks in.

“Rocky, you and Debbie went out together ages ago. When yous were just kids. It was years before I took up with her. You can’t compare it.”

“I can.”

“You can’t. I’m crazy about her. She’s the best thing in my life. What did you have – puppy love?”

“Haud the bus. You think the feelings you have at 16 don’t matter? That they can’t stay with you? Have you had any idea how hard it has been for me, with yous two going
out?”

“But yous split up.” My voice sounds thinner, more whining than I expected. “You chucked her I seem to recall. You were chasing that wee bird from Anderston.”

“That’s all true. But I was just a daft boy back then. Now I know what I want. And yous are breaking up. And there’s no point in all three of us continuing to be
unhappy.”

“But you’re supposed to be my best pal, Rocky. Does that no count for anything?”

“Of course it does. That’s why I’m being up-front with you. And I’ve no touched her, that’s the honest truth. I’m no a liberty-taker.”

I walk over to him. He won’t rise to it, won’t get to his feet. So I do it anyway.

He gets up, water in his eye where I have punched him.

“I’ll no fight you Tim.”

I hit him again. Same place. A guy of Rocky’s rep just standing there and taking it. It’s unnerving.

“Deep down you knew this was coming.”

I go to hit him again but this time he leans back and avoids it. He steps back and adopts the pugilist’s poise. We exchange blows, I connect with his face three times, he with mine twice,
more to repel me than anything more. Then we end up on the deck, wrestling and writhing in the dust. Rocky is strong and down here my slight height advantage means nothing. He rolls us over and I
am in the shallows, the water gushing over my face, throwing me into a panic. He drags me up and pins me to the dry ground, sitting on my chest. I struggle. He yells into my face from point-blank
range.

“THAT’S ENOUGH! THAT’S ENOUGH! THAT’S ENOUGH!”

I let my body go limp. He gets up. I sit up.

“Your nose,” he says.

Blood is streaming down onto my naked chest. I take out my handkerchief and apply it. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Tim – ”

“Get your haun off of me!” I yell as I get to my feet. “Get your fucking haun off of me!”

He relents, sits by the willow tree and regards me.

“Tim, I’m sorry . . .”

“You’ll just have to find someone else,” I state.

“I’ll no meet someone else. You will.”

“Me? No
you
will. You always do.”

“You’re the one who will likely move onto art school. Meet someone on your level. You always think I’m the big hit with the birds. But I’ll never meet anyone as good as
Debbie.”

“She’s my girl.”

“She’s no. She never was.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve been going out for near-on two year!”

“But she belongs to the Gorbals. You don’t.”

“What?”

“You’re getting out of this life. And that’s brilliant. But the Gorbals, it won’t forgive you. And Debbie – you can’t take her with you.”

“Naw. Because I’ve got her, you want her.”

“Naw. Don’t you understand? She doesn’t even prefer me; it’s just that . . . she knows where she is with me.”

“You just can’t stand me having someone you can’t have. You had to end up on top, be the boss man as usual.”

“You’re wrong,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “You always think the worst of me. I can’t help the way I feel. Neither can she.”

The last three words are like being kicked – physically kicked – in the stomach. I have to sit down. I have my back to him as I watch the river flow by for a moment.

“Listen Rocky, here it is, plain as you like. You go with Debbie if you want. But you and me are done. Comprende?”

Silence. Then he does something extraordinary. He weeps. He puts his face in his hands and cries and cries. A sickness creeps into my stomach. Eventually I walk over. I look down at him. The
hard man of the Cumbie. Indestructible, unruffable, beautiful, untouchable – greeting like a wean. His perfect slacks and sky-blue polo shirt now soiled by earth and blood. The sobbing
subsides. He looks up at me.

“I’m sorry Tim. I’ll tell Debbie to forget it.”

He stands up and says: “Will you forgive me?” and offers me his hand. Instead of accepting it I embrace him.

We get ourselves cleaned up as best we can and then walk back to the camp.

“Christ, Celtic are playing in the European Cup final and here’s us scrapping like a couple of bams,” I complain.

“We should be ashamed of ourselves,” agrees Rocky.

But it will take time, not words, to wash away the violence that has passed between us.

The boots are on. The pit boots, that is; boots that could tell a thousand stories, of friendship and camaraderie, humour and warmth. Other stories, too, of
pain – physical and mental – of loneliness, and of death. I raise my foot onto the top of the car wheel and tug at the laces. I place my foot back on the ground and watch a puff of
black dust rise up. Thin strips of blackness are left streaked across my hands. Reminders of another time and place.

I stand at the bottom and gaze up at the black mound rising into the milky late-afternoon sky. I start to climb. I feel the crunch of the coal slag beneath my boots. It feels good.
I climb higher and higher, fixing my gaze on that peak. The climb gets steeper. I have to use my hands now, scrabbling on all fours, palms stained with the blackness, beads of sweat trickling down
my neck.

Then, finally, I reach the top. I slowly clamber to my feet and look around. And there it is. The West of Scotland spread across the horizon. I look to the east and see the
Lanarkshire coalfields, where it all began. I think of the men who spend their days in darkness, risking their lives to gouge out more of the black stuff from the bowels of the Earth . . . united
by the ever-present threat of death.

I remember the roll-call of deceased:
three killed in explosion, seven killed in roof fall, 11 killed in fire
. Some more specific:
James Clancy, 37, struck by hutch; Tom
Gardner, 17, death by methane gas poisoning; George McMillan, 24, crushed by stone
. Names in the local newspaper but to us not just names: friends, comrades. Dead. Men snatched before their
prime. We would watch their young, lifeless bodies being carried out and into mortuary trucks. My own father, a roadsman in the pits, survived a haemorrhage and several gassing accidents. I think
of the lessons that should have been learned and the conditions miners are still forced to put up with, the negligent attitudes of the fuckin’ colliery owners, the ignorance of the
politicians. I think of the unions – the great unifier – McGahey and the rest, fighting for the rights of men who are more deserving of respect than those who claim to represent them in
the Houses of Parliament.

I look closer and try to pick out the location of Earnock Pit, where I started; then, across the river to Bothwell Castle where I moved in 1943; finally, the Priory Pit. Thirteen
years in the darkness.

I look at my watch, nearly 5pm. Soon, the shift will finish and the pubs will fill up. Every night I watched as men fell out of these places, staggering home with brew in their
bellies and fire in their eyes. “If you want to break my heart, go to the pub with your father.” My mother’s words. Enough to inspire a lifetime of abstinence.

I think about the petty religious differences that bubble back to the surface whenever these fine, courageous men emerge blinking into the daylight; the scourge of sectarianism,
dividing the working classes and distracting them from identifying the real enemy. How the fuck did we end up with this form of religion which is expressed in tribal loyalties to football
teams?

I gaze westward over the cityscape and pick out the black lines of the church spires stretching into the darkening sky. Religion. Karl Marx called it the opium of the people. He was
wrong. In its purest form, it is uplifting and civilising. I can see and appreciate its influence on others, even if I can’t experience it fully in my own heart. I think of Matt Busby, a true
man of faith, whose dignity shines out of him. A man who combines his love for God with his love of the game; a man who has built his club around a strong moral framework. I admire that, but
religious belief does not burn in me. What do I believe in? A Higher Power – I suppose so. But most of all I believe in football. And in football’s ability to bring joy, to inspire
people and make their hearts sing. That is no cliché. That is my reality every time I walk out of the tunnel on a Saturday or scan the faces in the crowd after we score a goal. Every time we
win a trophy or I shake hands with a well-wisher in the street, I look into their eyes and I see it. I see it burning within. Faith and hope. What do I believe in? I believe in Celtic Football Club
and I believe in football. Football is my religion.

A stone’s throw from here lies Ormiston, the Lanarkshire mining village which produced Matt; to the west, Glenbuck, where Shanks was born and bred. This is the cradle of
Scottish football. What is it about this little corner of the world that produces leaders of men? “When a manager gets his players to do what he wants them to do, when he merges them all
together, it’s a form of socialism,” said Shankly, spoken like a former miner. ‘How do Busby and Shanks build such great teams? Where do they get their understanding of
teamwork?’ people ask. The answer lies underground, in the deep bond on which each other’s survival depends.

It is about courage, a quality that cannot be given to someone, but must exist already. In football, talent is nothing without courage. Courage is being able to control a ball in a
tight situation and to not be afraid of the opposition; to be able to absorb the anxiety of 100,000 fans and still keep your focus and do what the situation requires. Miners can spot men who have
courage. They are the ones whose spirits shine in the blackness. The darkness.

Then there are a chosen few who find a way out, who are able to raise themselves from the bowels of the Earth and do something exceptional. They are the ones who spot light in the
darkness and do not stop until they have reached it; the ability to see beyond the black walls, to peer over the smoking chimneys and the smog, to look upon distant horizons and resolve to change
the natural order of things – those are the qualities that make good men great. For some of us, like myself, Shanks and Busby, football was that brilliant, dazzling light. It continues to
illuminate our lives and others around us. But we will never forget the darkness.

I pick out the floodlights of Celtic Park, jutting into the skyline, lighting up lives. I look down at my blackened hands. Hands that once emptied hutches and filled them up again
for eight hours a day, but now direct professional footballers . . .

Tomorrow I will board a plane to Lisbon and the grey smog of Glasgow will be replaced by heavenly blue skies. There, under an Atlantic sun, I will place my destiny in the hands of
11 young men whose ability to kick a bag of leather around a patch of grass holds more importance than they could possibly comprehend. I picture it now, in my mind’s eye . . . the aftermath
of victory . . . the clouds parting, the smog lifting and heavenly rays pouring down on this little grey corner of the planet . . .

Delphine tends to the swelling round my left eye.

“You know a person has no right whatsoever to strike another person? I thought you had rejected violence?”

“The gangs, aye.”

“And what of this? You think this is a way to settle a dispute? It is . . . barbaric. It is beneath you. It diminishes you.”

She continues dabbing. I try not to wince.

“I have already tended to Rocky. You want to smash your friend’s face up like that? You ought to be ashamed.”

I recall the image of my fist landing on his face as he just sat there. I remember him weeping. I feel a wave of nausea, a sense of self-disgust that almost overwhelms me.

“This is about your girl, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“Women’s intuition.”

I watch her as she selflessly concentrates on my wounds. Her expression is resigned, defeated. I feel sorry for her.

After a while she says: “You do realise you will not stay with them?”