Bobby halted the car at the bottom of the drive and said, ‘So, where first? Better warn you, Rab’s got a wee welcome arranged for you back in the Sword Street flat. Some of the guys, some burds. I wasn’t supposed to tell you but I know you’re no keen on that sort of thing.’
Bobby knew him well. The idea of a crowd of people slapping him on the back, welcoming him home, filled him with dread, but he knew he would have to endure it. Rab would have gone to a great deal of trouble, and Davie didn’t want to offend his big mate. Saying that, he wanted to put the ordeal off as long as he possibly could.
Bobby was waiting, so Davie said simply, ‘Abe.’
* * *
The street in Easterhouse had not been refurbished, although Davie saw quite a few which had. Bobby was right – the schemes were changing, but it was a slow process. The exterior of this four storey tenement was still blackened by thirty odd years of Glasgow weather, pollution and the ever-present threat of dampness. The young woman who opened the door to them was a cheerful blonde with an open, plump face and blue eyes that danced with good humour. Beyond her, Davie could see a clean, tidy living room that was freshly decorated and pleasantly furnished. However, as she saw first Bobby and then Davie, a shadow fell across her face that made him feel guilty.
‘Bobby,’ is all she said, but her tone told them she was wary.
‘Ellen,’ said Bobby, ‘this is Davie.’ She nodded politely but Davie knew she wasn’t glad to meet him.
‘You’ve come for Abe,’ she said, her voice flat.
‘Just to see him, that’s all,’ said Bobby. ‘Davie’s… just got back…’
‘From the jail,’ said Ellen, without judgement. ‘I know who he is. I mind him from before.’
Davie remained perfectly still, though he was growing increasingly uncomfortable. He should never have come here – should have left well enough alone.
‘Abe’s no here,’ she said. ‘He’s out wi’ Darren and the wean.’
‘Darren no working?’
A shake of the head. ‘Day off. Going to see his maw later, it’s her birthday.’
Ellen was still looking at Davie, her eyes curious. He wondered what she knew about him.
‘Right, right,’ said Bobby. ‘Okay. Well. We just stopped by on the off-chance. Sorry to bother you, hen.’
She nodded and began to close the door, then she thought of something and she opened it again. ‘He’s a great wee dog, so he is.’ She addressed this to Davie. ‘The wean loves him to bits, Darren too. He’s part of the family.’
Davie nodded, understanding that he was being warned off from taking the dog back. He turned and began to walk back down the stairs. Bobby, a bit embarrassed, thanked her again and followed him down. In the street, Davie stood for a moment, letting the weak sunshine play on his face. Bobby came out of the close behind him and said, ‘Sorry about that, Davie. She’s a nice lassie but… well…’ Bobby ran out of words as Davie climbed into the car. He walked round the front and slid into the driver’s seat. ‘So, Sword Street now?’
Davie nodded and Bobby turned the ignition. Just as he was about to pull out, Davie reached out and touched his arm, staring through the windshield. Bobby followed his gaze and saw a lanky young man with thinning fair hair walking towards them holding the hand of a little girl of about nine. Abe trotted beside them, no lead, but confident and secure. The dog was obviously well cared for and happy, judging by the enthusiastic wag of his tail. He had aged, his muzzle coated with white hairs as if someone had rubbed castor sugar into them, and his pace slower than Davie remembered. He had been at least one year old when Davie rescued him, so that would make him around eleven now. His limbs may have been stiffer, but his tongue lolled from his mouth and as he looked up at the man and child, his eyes were bright.
Bobby had a hand on the door release, but Davie shook his head as he watched the father, daughter and dog near the closemouth.
So that was what a happy family looked like
. They passed the car, oblivious to the men inside, and he heard the little girl chattering happily and addressing comments to Abe, who wagged his tail even harder whenever his name was uttered. The three figures turned into the close and Davie watched them vanish inside, feeling something scratching at his throat and burning his eyes. He was not sure what love was anymore, but he knew he felt something for the wee mongrel. But he couldn’t take the dog away from that home, where he was loved, where he was happy. He just couldn’t.
And then, just as he was about to tell Bobby to pull away, Abe appeared again. He stood at the tenement doorway, staring straight at the car, his mouth closed now, his nose raised to sniff the air, his eyes almost quizzical as he found Davie’s face. At first Davie thought the dog had not recognised him but then, slowly, the tail began to wag. He didn’t move forward though, and Davie didn’t want to get out. Neither man nor dog moved, they simply looked at one another, separated by the glass and ten years. Davie heard a man call Abe’s name and the dog glanced over his shoulder back into the close, then turned to the car again. Davie felt the sting behind his eyes increase and he intuitively sensed the dog was looking for permission.
Go on, son,
he thought.
Go home.
Abe remained still. It was as if as if he didn’t want to move, the bond he had formed with Davie back then still strong.
Please, Abe
, Davie thought,
just go…
The dog’s bright brown eyes didn’t move from Davie’s face, though his ears twitched when he heard his name being called again from inside the building. He took a step forward, his tail swinging, and Davie was about to tell Bobby start the motor, to get him away from here. But Abe stopped and looked over his shoulder once more. Darren appeared at the closemouth and Davie heard him say, ‘What you waiting for, pal? C’mon in the house.’
Abe turned to face Davie one last time and an understanding passed between them. He would always love Davie but he had a home now, a family, something Davie could not give him. Then the little dog turned and followed Darren into the close. Davie swallowed hard to dislodge the hard lump in his throat, part of him hoping that Abe would return. He didn’t reappear. Davie kept his face averted from Bobby. He did not want him to see the tears welling in his eyes.
Goodbye, Abe
, he thought.
Goodbye, pal
.
13
SWORD STREET HAD
not changed since he left it ten years before. Different cars were parked outside the tenements and shop fronts that lined the left hand side, but the sandstone buildings looked exactly the same. No reason for them not to, he supposed, but after seeing the renovation work being carried out in the schemes, he perhaps expected change here too. As they climbed up to the second floor flat, they met a woman in her sixties coming down. She was dressed like a typical Glasgow pensioner – shapeless thin coat, patterned scarf on her head, shoes with low heels. She stopped on the landing and studied them as they approached.
‘You have come home,’ she said to Davie, her heavily lined face showing no warmth.
‘I have, Mrs Mitchell,’ said Davie, dredging the woman’s name from the depths of his memory.
She nodded. ‘Your friends, they are waiting.’ Her voice still betrayed her Polish origins, though she had lived in Scotland since the late 1940s. She had married a Scot, had three children, yet never lost her accent. Hearing it reminded Davie of Joe. The woman lived in a flat that Joe had owned on the floor above. The old man had let her live there on a nominal rent and seeing her, hearing her accent, made Davie feel better somehow, as if Joe was still around calling the shots. The woman had looked askance at him and Rab, but always had a ready smile for Joe when he visited. She made her own
kielbasa
, a cheese bread for which he had a particular soft spot, and they would often sit together in her flat talking of the Mother Land.
‘We’ll keep the noise down, Mrs Mitchell,’ said Davie. She had constantly complained of the noise they made. They were young then and unaware of the disturbance they could cause.
‘No shooting, eh?’ She said, and Davie knew she was referring to the night Clem Boyle had fired shots on the ground floor. A grim smile stretched his lips at the memory. ‘No, Mrs Mitchell, no more shooting.’
She grunted, clearly not believing him, and carried on down the stone steps. Bobby grinned at Davie and said, ‘Welcome home, eh?’ Davie shrugged and took another step when he heard the woman’s voice again.
‘David,’ she said, and he looked over the banister. She had stopped midway down the next flight and was staring back at him. ‘Mister Joseph Klein, he was a good man.’
‘Yes, he was, Mrs Mitchell.’
She nodded, as if satisfied that he agreed. ‘I miss him a great deal.’
Davie sighed. ‘So do I, Mrs Mitchell. So do I.’
He had given her the right answer, for her stiff features softened. ‘There was man here, looking for you. A few weeks ago. He said he knew Mister Joseph Klein.’
Davie’s grip tightened on the thick wooden banister. ‘Did he say his name?’
She shook her head. ‘No name. He looked familiar.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He asked after you, wished to know when you would be home. I did not know and this I told him.’
Davie knew the answer to his next question before he heard it. ‘What did he look like?’
She paused, her face crumpled as she thought back. Then she looked up and said, ‘He looked like you, David, except older…’
Davie’s fingers tensed on the polished wood and he glanced at Bobby, who was listening to the exchange with interest. ‘Who is he, Davie?’
Davie licked his lips, which had suddenly turned very dry, and when he spoke his voice was dust-bound. ‘My dad.’
* * *
Rab McClymont’s eyes clouded as he thought over what Davie told him, the muted sound of Madonna singing ‘Vogue’ coming from the sitting room. They were in Davie’s old bedroom in the Sword Street flat. It had been freshly decorated and the double bed looked very inviting after ten years of stinking Barlinnie cots. All Davie wanted to do was get under the covers, curl up and sleep for a year. However, the fact that his father had been sniffing around would murder sleep.
‘You sure it’s him, Davie?’ Rab asked, his brow furrowed. When Rab’s big brow furrowed it looked like a freshly ploughed field.
‘Mrs Mitchell said he looked like me, but older. And I’m certain I saw him outside the court that day. And he sent me that photo of my mum. Who else could it have been?’
Rab could not answer that. Bobby said, ‘You think it was your dad that set Harris and the other lads on you, Davie?’
Rab frowned at that. Davie replied, ‘Could be.’
‘Well,’ said Rab, forcing a wide smile, ‘let’s no worry about Danny McCall now, eh? Come on, Davie, got some folk I want you to meet. But first, got something to show you.’
Davie sighed inwardly, but he went along with it. Rab was his mate, and he didn’t want to let him down. He knew the guests were crowding into the living room at the end of the hall, but Rab didn’t lead them there right off. He stepped across the lobby and threw open the door to what had once been his own room, back when he and Davie shared the flat. He gave Davie a wide grin as he stepped back to let him pass. Davie tightened his eyebrows quizzically and looked in. Rab’s big bed was gone of course, but it was what had replaced it that surprised him. One wall was covered in shelving which Davie recognised as having been in Joe’s old place up near Barlinnie. And those shelves were filled with the old man’s most treasured possessions – his records, line after line of carefully tended vinyl, gathered over years. There was even a substantial selection of 78s, their brittle plastic lovingly protected in padded sheathing.
‘Joe left them to us,’ said Rab. ‘All his Frank Sinatra stuff, his Dean Martin, all they guys. Stuff frae the forties and that, big bands, Glenn Miller, some blokes I’ve never even heard of.’
Davie stepped into the room reverentially. Joe had loved these recordings and many a night had been spent playing chess while Sinatra, Crosby or Dean Martin crooned in the background. Joe loved Frank Sinatra. ‘Others can sing a song,’ he used to say, ‘but Frankie
delivers
it’. Davie liked the sound, but his real preference was the swing music of Harry James, Tommy Dorsey and other names from that bygone era. He reached out and gently touched one row of album covers, running the edge of his finger along their spine.
‘I never much liked that stuff, you know that,’ Rab said. ‘But I know you did, so…’
Davie slid an album out and stared at the cover. A moody painting of Sinatra in a dark jacket, tie, hat on his head, a cigarette in his hand, leaning against a wall and behind him a lonely street with lamps glowing in a mist. Davie glanced over to the wall and saw that Joe’s old photographs had been hung there too. He sought out the one with the old man and Sinatra, taken years before in London. Joe was smiling at the camera, Frank’s arm over his shoulder. They both had drinks in their hand, Frank, like the album cover, with a cigarette burning between two fingers. Joe never smoked, never drank much, but he told Davie he did that night. ‘When Frankie offers you a drink, even pours it with his own hand,’ he once said, ‘you do not turn it down.’ Davie placed the album back in its place, swallowing hard to combat the growing emotion.