Authors: William McIlvanney
‘Ay, Ah’m a nice fella.’ Angus was laughing.
Tam wasn’t. He got up and crossed towards Angus, bending suddenly towards him. Angus stiffened. Tam tore an unprinted edge off the newspaper, folded it, went back to the fire and lit the cigarette stub he had taken from behind his ear. The paper flared in one sudden flame so that Tam seemed to be lighting the cigarette with his own burning fingers. He sprinkled the charred flakes into the fireplace and sat back down.
‘Whit’s wrang wi’ the pit ye’re in?’
‘It’s a bad pit.’
‘Ye mean there’s guid pits?’
‘No’ enough money.’
‘You’re gonny make mair?’
‘That’s richt.’
With thumb and middle-finger Tam massaged the area above his temples where the hair had receded.
‘Whit’s different aboot Number Eicht?’
‘Ah’m contractin’ fur the coal.’
‘Whit dae ye mean?’ Jenny asked.
‘It means Ah contract tae get so much coal oot for so much money. An’ Ah pey the squad that works wi’ me.’
‘It means we’ve goat a capitalist in the hoose,’ Tam said.
Angus appealed to the ceiling.
‘Och, feyther.’ Mick looked as if his soup had gone sour. ‘Ye should visit the twentieth century some time. That’s where the rest o’ us are leevin’.’
‘Ah don’t trust a man who pits himself in a position tae make money aff his mates.’
‘Me make money aff them! Listen, feyther. The men who’re comin’ wi’ me want tae come. Because they ken Ah could work them intae the grund eicht days a week. They canny lose. Because Ah’ll dae ma share, a’ richt. An’ maybe a bit o’ theirs. That’s whit they’re thinkin’.’
‘An’ whit are you thinkin’? No’ the same. When did you become a public benefactor?’
‘Ah’m thinkin’ Ah can work alongside ony man Ah ever met. An’ maybe a bit in front o’ ‘im. An’ Ah want the money Ah deserve. They’d heard o’ me at Number Eicht.’
‘Christ, ye’re famous. Did they tell ye whit they had heard?’
‘Aye, richt, richt.’
‘Maybe that yer heid’s just fu’ o’ muscles. An’ that yer only freen is yer pey-poke.’
‘Feyther, feyther!’ Mick was holding the severed stump of his arm in its pinned-up sleeve, in what had become a habit. He was crouched slightly in his chair as if holding in the pain. ‘Whit is it wi’ you? Whit are ye angry aboot? Ye’ve been doon there long enough tae ken whit it’s like. Why should Angus no’ move somewhere else if he can make some money? Ye talk as if he had some sacred duty tae knock his pan oot fur pennies.’
‘He should ken who he is by this time. That’s whit Ah’ve learned doon there. Ye don’t make contracts wi’ yer enemies.’
‘An’ whit have you done?’
‘Ah’ve asked fur nothin’. Ah’ve met ma life at the pit-face every day that Goad sent. An’ Ah took whit they widny gi’e me. An’ Ah showed them that they couldny invent conditions Ah couldny meet.’
‘Oh, that’s guid.’ Mick had his eyes closed, shaking his head. ‘That is very impressive.’
Angus stretched out his arms like a crucifix and said, ‘Could Ah supply ma ain nails, please?’
‘Dae ye no’ see whit that means?’ Mick was trying to be patient. ‘That means you’re no’ even worth a contract. Who needs tae make a contract wi’ folk like you, feyther? The miners sterted as slaves. An’ the chains are still in your bluid. Why no’ hiv a contract? For Goad’s sake, jist tell me why!’
‘Because it’s agreein’ tae whit is rotten in the first place. It’s shakin’ hands with shit. An’ that makes you the same. Clever Ah’m not. Ah’ll grant ye. But Ah’d have tae be helluva stupit no’ tae hiv learned wan thing. Where we leeve, it’s too late fur arrangements. A copper here, a bit o’ paper there. Contracts? There’s wan contract they’ll get fae us. Tae get the hell aff oor backs ance an’ fur all. Less than that, Ah’m no’ interested in.’
‘An’ whit hiv you been daein’ tae get them aff yer back? Ye’ve been feedin’ the bloody system a’ yer days. Proppin’ it up.’
‘Ah’ve been waitin’. That’s whit Ah’ve been daein’. Ah’ve kept somethin’ alive that they’ve been tryin’ tae kill. An’ that’s ma joab. Tae deny them every day o’ ma life. Tae show them they can neither brek us nor buy us. Fur oor time’s comin’.’
‘When?’ Mick’s laughter was just a noisy exhalation. ‘Ye widny happen tae hiv the date oan ye, wid ye?’
‘When it comes. Ah don’t ken when. When the yins that ken aboot these things can make it happen. An’ they will. Me. Ah’m jist keepin’ the accounts clean. A kinna tallyman. Ah ken hoo much is owed. An’ Ah’m no’ settlin’ fur less.’
‘Ye canny believe that, feyther.’
‘Son. Ah canny no’ believe it.’
‘Dear Goad,’ Mick said gently. ‘Fifty-odd-year-auld an’ still playin’ at Peter Pan.’
‘Mick!’ Jenny called as if he was moving out of earshot.
‘Let ‘im talk,’ Tam said.
‘Aye, let ‘im talk,’ Mick shouted. ‘Because there’s nae wey you’re gonny stoap ‘im. Because the truth’s been lukin’ in that bloody windy since Ah wis born, an’ we’ve still goat tae pretend it isny there. Ah’ve listened tae you, feyther. Fur years Ah’ve listened. Ye’ve said it that oaften, Ah sterted tae think it wis true. Feyther. Oor time isny comin’. Oor time’s here. An’ your time’s past. An’ they’re baith o’ them the same. Why have ye fed us this tripe fur years? D’ye ken ye made me that backward Ah wis eichteen before Ah wis born? Because an airm’s the least o’ whit Ah loast. Ah loast the inside o’ ma heid. An’ Ah’m havin’ tae grow a new yin. An’ it’s sair, feyther. It’s bloody sair! Because ootside this room, the rules are different. An’ you’ve never learned that yit. Well, Ah had tae learn. An’ whit Ah learned is that we’re a joke. No’ a very funny joke, but a joke jist the same. Naebudy is aboot tae set us free, feyther. The folk you’re waitin’ fur don’t ken ye’re born. If you want somethin’, ye’d better learn tae get it fur yerself. An’ you’ve never stertit tae fin’ oot. Whit offends you aboot Angus is he’s no’ goin’ tae shove his heid in the same halter as you. You are pathetic’
The silence that followed made Conn wince.
‘Is that whit ye’ think?’ Tam’s voice had the gentleness of fingers touching a wound.
That’s whit Ah bluidy well think!’
‘Is that whit you think, Angus?’
‘Ah think ye’re hidin’, feyther. Ye’re hidin’,’ Angus said. ‘An’ ye’ve been hidin’ fur years.’
Unsmoked, the cigarette stub had burned out in Tam’s fingers. He threw it at the fire but it fell in the hearth. The moment was a long recoil from the irrevocable, like watching the subsidence of an assassinated body. For Conn, what was dying was the sense of family he had. During the argument he had been siding mentally with his brothers, adding the weight of his silence to their words. Now he was like a conspirator who realises what unified as intention separates as event. For he felt with chilling certainty the separateness of them all, his family as an eccentricity. They weren’t so much brothers as they were a man with one arm, a muscular bully-boy and a worried nonentity. In rejecting their father, they had also rejected one another.
‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap,’ Old Conn said, not without a certain contentment. ‘Ah’ve warned ye repeatedly. And the son shall raise his hand against the father. That’s whit comes of keepin’ a godless house.’
Conn felt a profound hatred for the old man. He had sat in this house almost as long as Conn could remember, through how many endless conversations, desperate arguments, watching hope starve and dreams decay in his own son, waiting to pronounce the epitaph he made up before he came. Nothing had made any difference to him. Nothing could change him. He had sat through it all like a stone idol no offerings could move. In the silence Conn wished his father could resurrect himself as he had been.
‘Luk, feyther,’ Angus said quietly. ‘If it’s the wages that’s worryin’ ye . . .’
‘Oh here, though,’ Tam said, but Angus was too busy being generous to understand.
‘Ah’ll still be helpin’ oot in the hoose. Ye’ll no’ be the loser. Ah’ll see . . .’
Tam was suddenly on his feet.
‘You’ll see tae yerself,’ he shouted. ‘You offer me so much as tuppence o’ yer charity an’ they’ll be usin’ them tae haud yer fuckin’ eyelids doon. When Ah need you, son, bury me. Ye’ve ma permission. Put a pit-axe through ma heid an’ bury me. Ah’m better aff deid than needin’ the likes o’ you.’
‘Hey, feyther.’ Conn was starting to speak when the pain of his father’s whirling look made him feel as if he was holding a knife.
Mick made a tutting sound with his mouth and shook his head.
‘An’ you, son.’ Tam turned on him. ‘You’ve had yer say, an’ Ah don’t want tae hear it said again. You’ve had hard times. An’ ma life hisny been a holiday. An’ years an’ years ago, Ah made a line. An’ you’re the furst man that’s came acroass it an’ walked back. The rest hiv a’ been cairrit. An’ don’t dae it again, son. Don’t dae it again.’
He took his jacket from the chairback and walked out, leaving a silence behind. It was an impressive performance. A stranger would have been awed. But Conn had known him when he would have stayed. And he knew what it meant.
‘Well then. Well then,’ Angus said.
The sons sat still. Jenny rose and cleared away Mick’s plate and made fresh tea.
‘McCann,’ Old Conn said.
Conn looked at him.
‘McCann. That wis the young priest’s name. A big dark-heided fella. He took tae the drink in the end, Ah mind.’
Jenny poured Mick’s tea and sat back down.
‘You will respect that man,’ she said, ‘or you will not be in this house.’ She said it formally, to the wall that she was facing. That’s the best man ye’ll meet in a week’s walk. An’ you’ll respect him.’
Nobody else spoke. Conn was surprised to find himself thinking quite calmly that he did respect him, but not as much as he had done. In a way, it was his father’s fault for having been so impressive before. Now you couldn’t help but see the difference. Like a boxer who was once fearless but has learned to be afraid, he might seem himself to those who didn’t know him. But appearance had been encroaching more and more upon the substance and he could no longer bear to live within the range of other people’s force, for he couldn’t any more stand hurt.
‘He wis the best man ye could find,’ Jenny said. And added as if correcting herself, ‘An’ still is.’
Conn knew this time that she was looking at him. But he was too embarrassed to look back. For she must have known herself she didn’t believe it. Her words had become just a formula, something to say. The King is dead. Long live the King.
3
What was happening in his house no longer affected Conn as deeply as before, for the polarity of his life had shifted. He had discovered girls. He’d always known of them, right enough, but the difference between his present experience of them and his past was the difference between dreaming over a map of the Amazon forest and being dropped blindfold into it. He had known the terms but now he was visited by them as palpitating presences. Mystic breasts descended upon him. He saw visionary thighs. The most mundane objects were capable of growing female parts and whole stretches of his life became surrealistic.
He often wondered why his family didn’t notice. They would look at him the same way as before, or more frequently not even bother to look, as if his solidity could be taken for granted, whereas he was ferociously in flux, a teem of pressures and urges and needs that his skin seemed hardly capable of containing. He had recurrent dreads that somebody would accidentally gain access to the locked room his thinking had become. One of these took the form of a fear that some night, when he was sitting in his house as if he was just another human being, the dirty words that orgied in his mind would force an exit from his mouth and dance obscenely across the room like nude chorus-girls. Another was that one of his erections would never subside and he, as the first recorded sufferer from lockjaw of the scrotum, no cure known to medical science as yet, would have to walk through life advertising his enormity and having special suits made for him.
He lived in a private time-scale. A week was a weekend with some other days hanging round it. His sense of himself had become uncertain and he was now someone he only met up with fitfully. There was one favoured meeting-place – the dance-hall. He pursued himself wherever a dance was held, going most often in the company of Bert Crawford and Jock Finlay, either in the town or trekking to the villages around. The location didn’t matter, a five-mile walk was nothing. For the dance-hall wasn’t a place but a continuing event in which the rest of the week was just the intermission. Nowhere else could he find the heat and noise and hustle and the swarming sense of possibilities to match what was happening in himself. There you could be as many people as you wanted.
So he said, ‘Because Ah’m thinkin’ o’ emigratin’.’
‘Where wid ye go?’
‘Maybe Canada.’
‘But why?’
‘Why no’.’
She looked at him as if his daring was unanswerable.
‘Ah widny hiv the nerve.’
As he danced, everything took on vividness from his imminent departure. He noted the colours and the faces and the sounds, recording his future nostalgia. Too far away to be heard by the others, ships bleated their foghorns.
‘When wid ye be goin’?’
‘Nothin’s fixed yet.’
But for five minutes after the dance, he felt as if it was, moving with quizzical vagueness among his friends, wondering how much he would be missed, an emigré from his own future.
And he said, ‘Hiv ye ever thocht o’ gettin’ mairrit?’ ‘You look like Mary Pickford.’ And, ‘Ye like readin’? Ah read an awfu’ lot maself. Ah come fae a redin’ faimly.’ And, ‘Maybe Australia.’
‘Why that?’
‘Because there’s lots o’ opportunity oot there.’
‘Whit wid ye dae?’
‘Whitever comes up.’
‘Ah wish Ah had your courage,’ she said, squeezing his arm as if to feel his muscles.
And an hour might have passed before he realised that he wished he had his courage too. By that time he was lost in compensations.
Bert Crawford was saying, ‘Ye hear aboot Tadger, then? Well he’s helluva constipated, right? Wance went eleeven days withoot a passage. Had coabwebs oan his erse by the time he made the grade. Well, when Mickey Ray an’ Andy Cunningham begged ‘im fur the price o’ a gemme o’ snooker, he gi’es them it oan condeetion they drink a boattle o’ castor ile an’ a boattle o’ cascara. He had the stuff in the hoose. An’ they did it. They managed to poat a red.’