Loch Lomond

John sits on the park bench watching beaming parents push their children on the swings, and remembers his mum. She would laugh uncontrollably, wheezing and snorting as he held on for dear life, screaming with fear, joy and excitement rolled into one ball of boyhood bliss.

An elderly lady walking her ageing Yorkshire Terrier sits on the bench, pulls a flask and foil-wrapped sandwiches from her bag and looks down her nose at John. The dog gives John a quick sniff but not a second glance. Foil being unwrapped tells him food’s on its way. Nothing’s going to distract from lunch, especially not a scruffy kid with manky jeans and a smell of waste about him.

Catching a whiff of tuna, John’s belly rumbles, reminding him he’s not eaten anything since the quarter slice of pizza he found last night and had for breakfast at 4.00am. He considers grabbing the sandwiches and running off, but quickly brushes those thoughts aside. If he asks for one she might think he’s a beggar. He’s seen homeless people sitting on street corners and doorways and feels sorry for them. It wouldn’t be right to deprive them. The last few pound coins in his pocket dig into his leg, but they’re for an emergency. Stomach murmuring with loud discontent he watches the dog struggle with the plain crusts as if they were dinosaur bones.

“Would you like the last sandwich?”

John looks at the old lady as she offers him the foil package. She’s not smiling. He can see a sort of pity in her eyes. But it’s not a charitable pity. It’s more of an ‘I’m doing this to boast to my friends at the lunch club that I’m doing my bit’ sort of pity. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he nods, reaches over and grabs the package.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I always make too many. Most times I throw spares to the birds. But, if you’ll forgive me for saying, you look like you’ll appreciate it more today.”

John’s mum told him never to speak with his mouth full, so he nods enthusiastically while wolfing the sandwich.

“Are you alone at the park today?”

Again John nods, watching the sun reflect on the foil, remembering long evenings with his mum crashed out on the floor.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be in the park yourself?”

“I’m eleven,” says John, still chewing. “It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh, well in that case, happy birthday.” She looks him up and down, mentally comparing his smaller than average size to her own grandson of the same age, wondering if he’s fishing for extras. “Eleventh birthday you say?”

John nods. “I was born two months premature due to complications.”

A toddler runs past giggling, closely followed by a mum who catches him, picks him up and tickles him. He howls with laughter. She cuddles him.
John’s mind flows back to the days when he and his mum snuggled into each other to keep warm in their damp and draughty old flat in Maryhill Road. It may have only been one room, but to John it had everything in the world.

Back then it was normal not to eat every day. One meal every two days was enough for both of them. That soon became one in three. There were even some periods of only one meal a week, but they were rare, and during those times his mum could always produce fruit or sweets from somewhere.

Those acquisition skills, learned from his mum, have helped keep him alive since he ran away from the children’s home a few days ago.

The older kids were stronger and made his life a constant misery by teasing and beating him. Most nights he cried himself to sleep hoping one day his mum would come back for him. His bed stank.

But he knew that was his own fault. A boy of his age shouldn’t wet the bed. It didn’t seem to matter to the care workers who taunted him that he didn’t mean it. Sometimes he tried staying awake but his eyes were usually sore and tired from crying. Other times he only realised he’d fallen asleep when he awoke soaking. No-one cared about his side of the story. They only cared about the smell and the extra work. His bed was situated next to the cracked window, allowing fresh air to pour in and dilute the stench of urine and disinfectant from his mattress and blankets.

He’d never wet the sofa bed he shared with his mum. He always felt safe and warm. Even on the frostiest of nights when ice froze on the inside of their solitary window, she was always there with an extra blanket and a tighter hug, or a hot water bottle when they could afford a power card for electricity.

The old lady watches John’s longing eyes follow the happy family. “So where is your mum today?”

“I don’t know where my mum is.”

“What about your dad?”

“I don’t have a dad.”

The old lady’s eyes narrow. “So where do you live?”

John stiffens with the realisation he’s been too honest. His mum told him never to tell lies, unless absolutely necessary. This seems like one of those times. “When I say I don’t know where my mum is, I don’t mean I haven’t got one. What I mean is... she’s shopping just now. I’m meeting her later on.”

“Mm, I see,” says the old lady, unconvinced. She notes John’s short, dark hair, green eyes and small mole on his right cheek. “You know, there was a story in the Clydebank Post this week about a little lad who looked just like you and…and… mm, well, I best be heading off. You waiting here long? I’ll bring more sandwiches.”

“Only until it’s time to meet my mum.”

As soon as she’s out of sight John heads back into the bushes and towards his makeshift camp in the hills where he’s been sleeping rough, away from searching police and social workers.

Taking off one of his trainers he pulls an old photograph from under the insole. In the picture with him and his mum is his four-year old little cousin Susan. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of blue trunks and a broad grin. Susan’s wearing soiled white pants, a coat of sand and a smile to melt the coldest hearts. He doesn’t know his mum’s age but thinks she looks beautiful with her long, dark hair framing her strong-featured face and huge brown eyes. A black bikini contrasts her pale, thin body.

The photo was taken on a daytrip to Loch Lomond by Davy, his mum’s latest boyfriend. John liked Davy; he was funny. The only times he didn’t like him was when he stayed overnight. Davy shared the sofa bed with John’s mum, leaving John to sleep on the hard floor with coats and jumpers for blankets and pillows.

The trip was a surprise present for John’s eighth birthday. Davy borrowed a car and picked John and his mum up at 8.30am. He remembers the exact time because he’d returned to school only two weeks before and always left the house at the same time. He loved that school more than any he’s been in since. But on this special morning his mum waited until precisely 8.30am before confusing John by handing him a bucket and spade.

“No school for you today, Johnny boy. You’re going to the beach. Happy birthday, son,” she beamed, with a proud smile and tears trickling down her gaunt cheeks.

She couldn’t shower John with buckets of money or expensive presents but was determined to make it a birthday he would never forget. Although she hadn’t told John yet, her addiction was getting worse instead of better and he was going into care the next day. The trip to Loch Lomond would be their last day together, just for a while, until she could sort herself out.

Like any normal eight year old John’s only concern was having as much fun as possible at the beach.

“You’re the best mum in the world, and I love you so much,” he shouted at his mum, before giving her a big kiss on the lips and the tightest hug his small arms allowed, and then whispering, “This is the best birthday present ever, Mum. I’ll never forget this.”

He recalls waving his spade out the car window and shouting to his classmates as they made their way to school. Any opportunity to make the other kids jealous was not to be missed, as these were unduly rare for John. The only other time John was envied by the local kids was when his mum stole him a pair of Nike trainers. He didn’t tell the other kids they were stolen, but he knew they were. He was with his mum when she stole them. She stuffed one of them down John’s jacket and told him not to say anything.

She explained herself at home. “Look, son. I want to buy you all the things that other kids have, but most days we don’t even have enough money to afford food. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have some of the things other kids have.”

“But isn’t stealing bad, Mum?”

“Stealing from other people is bad, John. If I’d stolen those trainers from another wee boy, he’d have no shoes to wear and that would be sad. But if you take them from a shop that’s got thousands of pairs, nobody’s going to miss one wee pair.”

John looked confused.

“Look,” she said, pulling a single long black hair from her head. “Can you notice any difference when I pull out one hair?”

John shook his head.

“Well, that’s how much the shop misses those pair of trainers you’re now wearing, but we can take them back if you want.”

John kept his Nikes.

Leaving the high rise flats of the city’s housing schemes behind, they headed north towards the higher peaks of the Highlands, singing, ‘you take the high road, and I’ll take the low road’ all the way. John remembers his first sight of Ben Lomond; the picture book shape of a mountain, rising to a pinnacle in the centre, like a volcano. It also looked like the king of Loch Lomond sitting on his throne, with the summit as his imperial crown. The Ben reached the sky, where a small solitary cloud clung to the top as if for dear life.

“Look, Mum. The volcano’s erupting,” he joked, but everyone was too busy taking in the beauty.

It wasn’t a typical Scottish summer day. The sun was shining, the wind was having a day off and only a light scattering of wispy clouds loitered around the highest peaks in the distance. To John they looked like little strips of cotton wool.

Loch Lomond was magnificent. The largest area of freshwater in the British Isles stood still as a garden pond. This in itself was nothing short of a miracle. The sheer size rendered its body extremely fragile and susceptible to the slightest of breezes. Today’s mirror-like surface provided the blank canvas on which Ben Lomond painted a majestic self-portrait; a life-size masterpiece on a scale beyond the wildest dreams of the most ambitious artist.

Most days the water was rough and choppy, and the mountain was hidden in mist. But John didn’t know or care about statistics. His first and only experience of Loch Lomond is, as far as he is concerned, how it always looks.

His mum suggested it might be a birthday present from God for being such a good boy. John smiled. He believed in God, and loved him almost as much as he loved his mum. Although she never mentioned God much herself, unless she was cursing, she always encouraged John to say his prayers. He still prayed every night.

They lay down a couple of blankets on the soft, golden sand before Davy surprised everyone and produced a picnic hamper from the car’s boot.
The whitewashed wicker basket became a Tardis-like treasure chest once opened. John had never seen so much food in his life and wondered how such a small, ordinary looking box could contain so many delights. John scanned the cakes of all shapes, size and colour and each one looked far more delicious than the last. He didn’t notice when he’d already completed a couple of laps of the cakes and each one still looked tastier than the previous.

Mesmerised, he almost fell into a trance until his mum snapped him out of it by lifting them out and revealing an assortment of fruit in the next layer. Oranges, apples, bananas, grapes, peaches and others he’d never even seen before, never mind know what they were called.

All his favourite sweets and drinks were also packed into the treasure chest. John hoped this is what heaven would be like.

For the rest of the day they all played on the beach or in the loch. The temperature of the water, although far from warm, wasn’t too cold. Time-outs only occurred when they were tucking into the feast of food, or when John’s mum rubbed sun lotion onto both his and Susan’s bodies. They made her do them both at the same time so they lost as little playing time as possible. It was John’s best birthday ever and, when blowing out the candles on his cake, he wished for all future birthdays to be like that one.

With the sun setting behind the purple-hued slopes of Beinn Dubh in the Luss Hills, they started packing the car. To John, evil shadows had been creeping across the loch for some time and were now climbing all over Ben Lomond. He watched as they accelerated towards the summit and attacked the guardian of the loch for his crown, which, being the last bastion of light shone like a beacon of hope against the ensuing darkness.

He half-hoped, half-expected the mountain to erupt, defending both himself and his subjects from the dark forces that now surrounded and smothered his golden peak. But it was not to be. King Ben Lomond surrendered his crown and empire without a fight.
John’s birthday party was over.

Fighting back the tears because he’s a big boy now, he places the folded photo back under the insole of his trainer, puts on an extra jumper from his carrier bag and wraps a blanket around him before lying down and looking through the leaves to the heavens.

“Please God, take care of my mum and let me find her one day. Amen.”

Keeping perfect time with fingers and toes, he sings in a sweet, gentle voice that’s swept away with the increasing wind whistling through the trees: “Me and my true love will maybe meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”