Time

The black-hack driver’s been rabbitin oan aboot aw manner ay bloody contradictory, ill-informed garbage since ah goat in at the rank at the Royal. Maist ay it barely registers; just the usual casual racism an xenophobia, spewed oot in a filthy slurry wae the assumption made that ah agree wae everythin he sais. Ah don’t, of course, no a bloody bit ay it, but ah’ve no goat the energy tae argue. Ah just grunt in vague recognition or gie the occasional monosyllabic acknowledgement, watchin the red an blonde sandstane corridor ay tenements flit slowly by.

As we get tae the boattom end ay Duke Street, passin under the railway bridge, the Parkheid Forge shoppin centre presents itsel tae us, its Egyptian pyramid inspired design still alien tae me in this post-industrial landscape. It disnae seem like long ago that Tam an I grafted in there, back in its original form. Looked bugger all like that, right enough. The black, chokin, sulphurous addled expanse ay the site made Blake’s dark satanic mills look like a bloody Butlin’s hoaliday camp. Still though, we didnae know any bloody different. Ye just goat oan wae it.

Thinkin aboot Tam back then — the cheeky wee bastart that showed up that Monday mornin tae start his apprenticeship, his whole life aheid ay him — illustrates the strange duality tae seein him up there, oan that hoaspital bed at the arse-end ay his life. Weak. Broken.

The taxi steals up Auld Shettleston Road, continuin oan at the foark where it chainges tae Shettleston Road, the driver wafflin his pish aw the while, an ah get him tae drap me at The Portland, tellin him tae keep the chainge aff the tenner ah gie him.

Inside, it’s the same as it ever wis; that familiarity ah spoke aboot, just ordinary folk huvin the craic, the waiy it should be. The waiy it needs tae be.

Ah order ma usual hauf an a hauf an nurse them fur a while, passively flickin through the Daily Record they keep ahent the bar.

There’s a few ay the team oer in the coarner playin doms — McHendry an that — but ah wave oer dismissively an gesture tae ma watch tellin them ah’m only in fur a quick wan. They cannae know aboot Tam yet, an they’ll no find oot aff me. Worse than the wummin used tae be in the steamie, that lot.

Ah keep thinkin ay him, the waiy he wis up there in the hoaspital; his vulnerability; his helplessness. Cannae square it wae masel.

Time is a queer thing, right enough. Wan minute yer a wee laddie barely gien it so much as a thoat. It’s just an abstract concept; an intangible thing, a unit ay measurement – a means ay cuttin existence up intae segments, however large or small. Back then, it seems like yer time’s infinite. Death disnae enter intae it, it’s somethin so far away, it disnae merit thinkin aboot. Then things happen tae ye. Ye lose people; people that hud their time cruelly taken away fae them, or threw it away themselves, an ye begin tae afford it the respect it deserves. The sauns ay time huv been pourin through the ooir-gless since afore we came alang, an they’ll continue tae long efter, until wan day, the last grain’ll drap an that’ll be that. Makes ye consider just how insignificant we aw ur if ye get tae thinkin aboot it too much.

Ah promised masel ah’d just huv the wan then be oan ma waiy, but thinkin oan it, ah relent, orderin a sly dram ay Macallan fur the road. The smooth, sherry seasoned whisky glides doon ma throat, the sensation ay warmth pronounced in its descent. Takin another drink, ah tip it back, finishin it, an place it gently doon oan the coonter. Ah put ma coat back oan an head fur the door, declinin the offer fae the lassie ahent the bar tae phone a taxi.

Ah make ma waiy hame, doon Amulree Street, ma eyes drawn tae the horizon alang the ridge line fae Dechmont Hill, past the braes ay Cathkin, an Gleniffer, further tae the West, as the last ay the daylight ebbs away, clingin oan tae fragmented clouds wae great cinnabar fingers in a last defiance ay the advancin bluey black ay the night.

 

Ah’ve a time ay it gettin the shed door open, the grass huvin grown again tae knee height fae the last time ah cut it. Like a bloody field ay wheat, it is, makin it an unnecessarily laborious endeavour as ah drag it through the resistant growth.

Up wae the birds, ah wis. Didnae sleep well, ye see? Ah couldnae, no wae whit’s been gaun oan, so ah goat oot ay bed an goat oan wae makin the soup ah’d startit afore Jackie phoned yisterday. Goat it oan the low heat ben the hoose, so ah huv, electin tae rap the procrastination an get oan wae the overdue task at haun – cuttin this bloody grass. It serves me well tae keep busy, ye see? Gies me time tae think.

Pullin the auld lawnmower oot, ah gie it a wee bit ay maintenance, pourin a wee tate ay petrol oot the jerry can oan tae a rag an removin an cleanin the spark plugs afore checkin the oil, decidin ah’d be best aff drainin it completely an refillin the bugger.

Mrs. McClymont fae oer the back makes a show ay flingin her curtains open an pullin her windae shut, drawin me daggers fae under her incongruous mane ay blue-rinsed hair as ah start it up. Gien her a wee wave as ah get tae work, she draws them briskly shut again wae an air ay indignation. Bloody greetin faced swine. It’s eight o’cloack in the bastarn mornin!

It takes me nigh oan three ooirs ay toil an sweat tae get it done but by the back ay eleven, it’s by wae.

Efter puttin the mower away, ah take masel back ben the hoose, tae the kitchen, an turn the burner aff. The aroma ay the lentils an ham stock fills the air, takin me back tae a thoosand similar times, be it as a wean when ma granny or mither wis makin it, through tae comin in fae a hard shift when Jeanie hud a pot simmerin away. Hers wis always the best, even better than ma mither’s. Ah never did tell her, right enough, an ah should’ve. Wee arbitrary things like that matter. Ye just don’t know till it’s too late.

Turnin the wireless oan, ah scroll through the stations, settlin oan Clyde 2, turnin the volume up so’s ah’ll hear it in the bathroom.

Ah huv a bowl ay soup, then another as the bath’s runnin, it’s warmth an sustenance reinvigoratin me, spurrin me oan fur whit lies aheid.

The bath watter’s just the right side ay scaldin as ah lower masel in, inhalin sharply as ma haw maws make contact wae the surface. Ah soak fur a while surveyin ma emaciated boady, creased an translucent. Christ, ye could go roon the world three times oer wae the amount ay veins oan display under the shroud ay tired auld flesh.

Perry Como - It’s Impossible comes emanatin doon the loabby, through the open door fae the kitchen. We loved that song, Jeanie an I. Some chanter, so he is. His dulcet tones muffle tae a vague impression ay the song as ah submerge ma heid fur a moment or two, afore returnin wae aplomb as ah break the surface again, eyes closed, lettin the music wash oer me, cleansin me in a waiy the soapy watter never could.

 

Ah wake up, wae a gasp, shiverin in the tepid, murky tub an prise masel oot, drippin wet, watter poolin oan the cauld linoleum at ma feet. A news report comes blarin fae the tranny, the newsreader’s voice tinny an irksome, engenderin an urgency in me somehow.

Efter towellin masel dry, ah put oan troosers an a shirt an tie, fumblin aboot wae the knot several times until ah’m satisfied wae its positionin afore gettin the shoeboax doon aff the tap shelf ay the wardrobe. The broon envelope wae the money ah’d gied Tam’s there, sittin oan tap ay the books where ah left it. Ah stick it in ma inside jayket poakit, feelin somethin there as ah dae so; a folded caird, it feels like. Retrievin it, ah open it tae see it’s the photie fae Daniel’s first birthday, the wan fae the frame in the hall Tam broke. John’s Stephanie an ma Jeanie gaze lovingly at him, held proudly in his faither’s airms, an ah staun, just as proud in ma stature, wae ma airm roon John’s shooder.

The score mark fae the shattered gless cuts through John an I’s faces, obscurin them, elicitin a contempt in me again — fur Tam initially, fur breakin the bloody thing — but mare so fur masel; fur ma complacency back then, oan that day. A kind ay visual poetic justice. Never could ah huv guessed whit wid lie aheid, that glorious day in August, back in seventy-nine. Aye, it’s a queer thing, time, right enough.

Ah pull the jayket oan, an get ma bunnet fae the peg ahent the kitchen door, turnin aff the blarin tranny while ah’m there, afore headin doon the stair an oot the door, back tae the bloody here an noo. Ah’ll see this McNulty bastart right fur his money an put it tae bed. It’s aw ah kin dae.

It’s turnt oot a rare efternin aw the same, the sun resplendent an proud, hingin in a clear azure sky.

Weans scatter fae a lamp post in aw directions, away seekin secretion in gairdens, up trees, ahent parked vehicles an hedgerows, leavin two ay their pals slowly countin as a gemme ay two-man hunt gets underwaiy.

Acroass the road, staunin at the coarner, there’s a wee group ay neds staunin; shifty lookin, basebaw caps an hoods flingin shade oer their faces. Up tae nae bloody good, ah’d say.

Ah keep ma eyes doon as ah approach. Nae sense courtin bother. That husnae been hard tae come by ay late. They’re huddled the gither conspiratorially, unaware ay me, until wan ay them pulls his gaze away fae the meetin, lookin at me. He nudges his pal, who turns tae look an aw.

‘Granda!’

‘Daniel?’

He runs oer, bowlin intae me in an embrace the kind ay which ah’ve seldom known fae he wis a wee nipper, ‘Granda,’ he sais again, his eyes inert an listless, ‘It’s – it’s, ma Da.’

 

Ah don’t know how long we’ve been staunin there as Daniel recounts Joe McGregor’s words efter Joyce Adams’ funeral. Ah’d heard she’d died (Stephanie phoned) but ah’d furgoat aw aboot it, in truth. Too much gaun oan ay late. Christ, ah never even knew that wis who he’s been workin wae but ah mind ay the boay noo. Quiet lad. He played fur the same boays club as oor John an used tae come roon fur him when they wur wee laddies tae walk him up tae trainin at the Greenfield pitches.

His words drive intae me, like a hydraulic piston, extirpatin aw that ah’d held tae be true; aw the years ay grief; the years ay pain an anger at him fur takin the easy waiy oot; fur breakin Jeanie’s hert; fur abandonin his boay – abandonin aw ay us.

Christ, she wis right. Jeanie wis right. She never accepted it, right up tae her last breath. Sais he widnae’ve, ‘Ma John widnae dae that, ah don’t believe it.’ she’d say, greetin; sobbin the same lamentations time an again intae her gless ay port or her pilla at night. An ah telt her – Christ, ah telt her awright, she’d huv tae accept it; huv tae reconcile it wae hersel. Ah gave her a hard bloody time ay it. Telt her she wis the wan bein selfish, protractin the bloody thing. She wis just makin it harder fur us aw tae move oan, fur Stephanie an Daniel especially. It widnae dae fur the boay tae hear such things. She hud tae let it go.

Eventually it abated, the near nightly cries at oor loss, an the injustice ay it aw slowly dissipatin tae a kind ay tempered depression – an acknowledged yet hidden condition, but by that point Stephanie hud become distant. The visits aw but stoapped an we saw Daniel only fleetingly, whenever she cared tae drap by.

It destroyed oor faimily, an aw the time ah ascribed it tae John an his actions. Fur toppin himsel! The coward’s waiy oot!

Oor John. Oor only wean.

Ma heid’s spinnin, everythin he’s tellin me overwhelmin me an he reaches oot, strokin ma face; a juxtaposition ay the young consolin the auld. A spiteful dread expands in the pit ay ma stomach like a cancerous growth eatin away at me fae inside, racin through the marra ay ma bones like electricity, pulsin intae ma consciousness. A sensory overload; a distorted reality.

‘Granda, ye awright? Here, McDade, Pearcey! Gies a fuckin haun, fur fuck sake –’

 

Ah come roon an they’ve goat me sittin oan a waw ootside the hoose where ah first clocked them.

‘Is he awright? Ur ye awright mister? Yer awfy pale lookin, ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost!’ a wee rotund wummin wearin curlers sais, huvin came oot tae see whit’s gaun oan, ‘Huv ye goat any medical conditions? Diabetes? Low blood pressure?’

‘Eh, naw hen. Ah just took a funny turn. Ah’ll be awright.’ ah sais, tryin tae get tae ma feet but ma legs buckle again under me, Daniel an his big pal, grab a haud ay me, stoappin me fae keelin oer again.

‘Just sit there a minute, Granda. Rest a wee while.’

‘Is it yer Granda son? You listen tae yer grandson Mr –?’

‘Coyle. His name’s Coyle.’ Daniel sais.

‘Well, Mr Coyle, you just let yer grandson keep an eye oan ye fur a wee minute till ye get yer strength back. Ah’ll go an get ye a nice cup ay sugary tea, awright pet?’ she sais, an waddles away back intae the hoose.

‘Look, ah know it’s a lot tae take in, but don’t worry aboot it, that cunt’s gonae get whit’s comin tae him.’ Daniel sais.

‘Whit dae ye mean? You bloody well staiy oot ay it, dae ye hear me?’

‘It’s awright Mr. Coyle, we’ve goat Danny’s back. That prick’ll be dealt wae, ye fuckin better believe it!’ his pal sais, the big wan, gien an assured nod ay the heid.

There’s a screech ay tyres oan tarmac as a big motor comes hurtlin doon the street, swingin roon the coarner acroass fae us, wan ay they big bloody four by fours, careerin doon the middle ay the road, comin tae a stoap at the far end ay the street, hauf hingin oot ay the space it’s pulled intae. The doors open an five guys pile oot, runnin intae a close, bloody tooled up, some ay them.

‘Fuck sake man. That’s McNulty’s close.’ The wee ginger heided pal ay Daniel’s sais, ah furget the name, Joyce’s grandson.

‘That’s whit ah’m bloody sayin! Yous staiy away fae that swine, dae ye hear me? Leave it alane!’ ah sais, tryin tae get up again, ‘ . . . mone, ye’ll need tae help me get doon the road, ah need a lie doon.’ They aw look at each other, disconcerted, ‘ . . . ah’m no bloody askin, Daniel!’

Ah’m helped tae ma feet an we start back doon the road taewards ma hoose.

‘Mr Coyle! Yer tea!’ the wee wifey fae the hoose shouts efter us, morosely haudin a mug an a plate ay biscuits oot in front ay her.

 

Ah get the door open an the boays help me up the stair, walkin me intae the front room.

‘Somethin smells rare, Mr. Coyle. You been makin soup?’ the wee wan sais. Pearcey they cry him. Heard Daniel sayin it oan the road doon.

‘Aye, ah huv that, son. Gaun in there an stick the hob oan. We’ll aw huv a wee bowl, eh?’

Daniel nods tae him tae dae as ah ask an he goes intae the kitchen.

‘Here, it’s like steppin back in time in here, man.’ the other boay, McDade sais, ‘ . . . aw these wee ornaments an that, ye should go oan tae that Antiques Roadshow – the wan aff the tellie.’ He lifts wan ay Jeanie’s wee ornamental pieces, a statuette ay the Venus de Milo, somebody — ah cannae mind who — brought back fae Paris.

‘Get it doon, McDade! That wis ma Granny’s.’ Danny scolds him, ‘ . . . ye gonae be awright noo? Ah’m sorry fur unloadin aw that oan ye. It’s just when ah seen ye, it aw came floodin oot.’

‘Aye, son. Ah’m awright.’ ah sais, as hollow a statement as ah’ve ever uttered, ‘ . . . tell me this, though, dae ye believe it yersel? Ah mean, dae ye trust this Joe?’

‘Ah’ve nae reason no tae believe him.’

‘Here ye go, Mr. Coyle. Ah’ve made ye a nice cup ay tea an aw.’ the boay, Pearcey sais, stickin the bowl doon in front ay me alang wae the tea, ‘Another three bowls comin up.’

‘Never mind the other bowls, Pearcey. Ma Granda needs his rest.’

‘Don’t be daft, sit doon here.’ ah sais, pattin the seat next tae me.

‘Naw, Granda. You rest up an ah’ll drap by an see ye the morra, right?’

‘Awright son. Ah will, but Daniel –’

‘Aye?’

‘You staiy away fae that swine, dae ye hear me? Ah’ve awready loast ma son, ah’m no losin you as well.’

He sais nothin, but nods his heid an smiles. Just like his faither, by Christ, his very image.

Ah see them tae the heid ay the stair an watch them file oot the door, Daniel last. He turns an gies us a reassurin glance as he shuts the door oer, then they’re gone.

The phone rings as ah pass it by, startlin me wae the pronounced metallic double-ring ay the bell inside the auld bakelite, rotary-dial phone. Ye’d think ah’d be used it by noo, the bloody thing’s aulder than Daniel.

‘Hello.’

‘ <cough> Hello, Mr. Coyle?’

‘Aye, speakin. Who’s this?’

‘Ye don’t know me, my name’s Alan Dempster, ah’m Jacqueline O’Henry’s partner. She cannae come tae the phone the noo, she’s too upset. She asked me tae phone ye. Ah don’t really know how tae tell ye this, it’s Mr. O’Henry – Tam. He, eh, <cough> he just passed away there, aboot an ooir ago.’