school photos 65

The do after the funeral was held in St Stephen’s church hall. White linen cloth-covered tables were set out around the perimeter of the wooden floor John had played football on when he’d been younger.  The flicker and glitter of the silver ball above the mourner’s heads was on standstill, waiting for Friday night disco-lights to revive it. Women from the chapel committee had done them proud, ferrying back and forth with industrial-sized tea and coffee pots. Plying the tables with sandwiches and sausage rolls, smoothing things out with remarks concerning what kind of fillings were best. A plate of cakes and biscuits for the kids. Men’s ties loosened and then shoved in their pockets, belts slackened.  A nip of whisky. That was their lot. They stayed on after the sandwiches, talking about football. Women’s shoes were kicked off tortured feet, buttons popped, and they had a confab about their kids. A vodka with coke or lemonade. Enough to wet their whistles and help them on their way.

Jean did the rounds, thanking everybody for coming. Jo at her elbow, listening in, being told what a big girl she was getting, managing a nervous smile.

‘It’s a terrible shame,’ was the common refrain.

Whether they were talking about his da, or his sister, John wasn’t sure. He was with his Aunties and their kids, stuck in a seat near the toilets, a can of orange in front of him. When not making small-talk with his Auntie Caroline, he glanced over at the stage and the emergency exit, his da’s mates at the makeshift bar, a plywood hut in the corner of the hall, with a serving hatch. They only had cans of McEwans, but that was better than nothing. Joey’s pals from the shipyard leaning and lounging, hunched, smoking and drinking and looking as if they were plotting for the world to end.

Bobby broke away from the group and cut diagonally across the Guild dance floor straight to where John was sitting.

‘A few of us are goin’ to the pub for a few jars. We’d like you to come wae us.’

Auntie Caroline shook her head across the table, warning him that he shouldn’t. Bobby smiled and kidded on he’d not seen it.  

‘Ah cannae,’ John said.

‘Too good for us?’ he chuckled.

‘No, it’s no’ that. I’ve got to keep an eye on my ma.’ John sighed. ‘And I’m pratted.’  

‘You don’t need money,’ he snorted. His big hand patted Auntie Caroline on the arm, tagging her. She dipped her shoulders to look up at him. ‘I think this good lady will keep an eye on your good mother.’ He winked, made it seem so reasonable, she nodded. John’s chair scraped on the floor in his haste to get up and to follow Bobby.

Bobby was first through the door of The Club Bar, his hand on John’s shoulder and a crowd of men behind them. The barmaid a thin woman with a beehive hairdo watched them come in, grinning at them with tobacco-stained teeth.

‘A pint of your best slops Agnes, for this young man. And unlucky for some, thirteen half and halves for the rest of us.’ Bobby swept his hand out, an introduction to the other men crowding the bar.

‘Hing on. Is he eighteen?’ She leaned her head to get a better look at John. ‘He doesnay look eighteen.’

Bobby pulled out a tenner, put it on the bar and tapped his forefinger against it. ‘That’ll get that. And there’s plenty more where that came from.’ He turned and studied John’s face, who in the throng, was pushed up against him. ‘That boy’s not eighteen. He’s twenty-one and he’s an American and not used to our crude ways.’

The barmaid begun pouring half pints of McEwans from the taps underneath the bar. She pirouetted, her arm outstretched as she held a shorts’ glass up to an upturned bottle of Bells in the gantry. ‘You twenty-one son?’

Bobby nudged him.

‘Aye,’ John said.

‘You don’t sound American.’  She held the glass up to fill it again.

‘But does he sound twenty-one?’ a balding man with a flushed face, piped in from the back of the crowd, folk standing nearby laughing.

They good-naturedly took over the pub, piled into the corner tables at the long curve of the mock-leather seats at the window. Crappy Status Quo hits played on the jukebox near the toilets. As people nicked in and out, John was told so many stories about Joey, he swelled up like a bullfrog. It made him think for a minute his da was just outside, waiting to pile in, and join the company. He was fed salted crisps and water-down whisky, which was good for you. When he had to use the loo, he became a bit wobbly on his feet, pink, with puffed out cheeks, but they were all impressed with him. He was just like Joey. He was a chip off the old block.

He remembered wittering on to Bobby about the dream he’d had and trying to explain its significance. That Janine was a succubus that was draining him, or he was an incubus draining her. He couldn’t remember which was which.

Bobby shook his head and gave him some advice. ‘That kind of stuff’s for old women, with hair nets and Tarot cards. Only daft women get involved in that kind of guff.’ His da wouldnae have liked it.

John got the message.  After that, the glop of sick, hemp and the feel of his living-room carpet under his cheek.