Docherty (36 page)

‘Hey, boay,’ he said. ‘Conn.’

‘Whit?’

‘When i’ you gettin’ a haircut? Ye’re walkin’ aboot there like a tree.’

‘It’s a’ richt, Conn,’ Mick said. ‘He’s oan the hair the nicht.’

‘Aye.’ Angus was timing his words to fit his exercises. ‘Jist because you’ve decided tae wear yer noastrils shoart.’

‘Naw. But that is bloody scandaleerious. Jenny. D’ye see this boay?’

‘Aye. Ah see ‘im. There’s no’ a thing wrang wi’ ‘im.’

‘Oh, very good. Behin’ every man there’s a wumman richt enough. Layin’ oan ‘is heid wi’ a backdoor brush. Ye’re fine, son. Jist buy yerself a wee periscope the morra.’

Tam retired behind his nostrils. Conn suddenly stretched and stood up. He looked at his grandfather, Mick and his father and shook his head. He was bored. He watched Angus for a minute.

‘A’ right, then,’ he said to Angus. ‘Ah’ll take ye oan.’

‘Son,’ Angus said, still watching the mirror, ‘that’s no’ a challenge. It’s a suicide threat.’

‘Come oan then.’

‘Ach, see, boay. Ah don’t want tae brek yer mammy’s hert.’

‘All-in wrestlin’.’

Conn made a lunge and they closed. They scuffled about in the middle of the floor.

‘Tam! Can ye no’ stoap that?’

‘It’s these boays wi’ long hair, Jenny. They’ve that much strength, ye see. They’ve goat tae get it oot.’

‘Here!’ Jenny said. ‘Lizzie doonstairs’ll think we’re havin’ a richt fight. Ye’ll be doon oan tap o’ ‘er in a meenit.’

Conn and Angus tried to wrestle in whispers. Angus was forcing Conn steadily back until Conn found himself nearly touching his father’s chair.

‘Christ, watch whit ye’re daein’ there. Ah don’t want a paira shears up ma nose. Get back fae me.’ Then, as they struggled away from him, ‘An’ watch yer gran’feyther there. If he swallies his teeth, ye’ll hear a’ aboot it.’

The knock at the door separated them at once. Jenny looked at the clock.

‘Who could that be, Tam?’

‘Ah don’t ken, Jenny. But Ah ken a guid wey tae fin’ oot. We’ll open the door.’ He was whispering. ‘Come an’ we wull?’

‘Ach, you. Angus, you get yer shirt oan. Folk’ll think it’s wan o’ thae nudist places. Hurry up. Wait a meenit, Conn. Get it oan! Oan ye go noo, Conn.’

Angus was still tucking in his shirt when Conn opened the door. Conn knew at once it was trouble. The man was wearing what you could tell were his good clothes. His bonnet was folded in his hand.

‘Is yer feyther in, son?’

‘Who is it, Conn?’ Jenny was asking.

‘Feyther. It’s a man fur you.’

Tam blew the clipped hairs off the mirror and into the fire, rubbed his nose, and put mirror and scissors on the mantelpiece. He was whistling tunelessly below his breath as he crossed to the door.

‘Yes, sur! Whit can Ah do fur ye?’

‘It’s ma lassie, sur. Eh. It’s no’ very haundy tae talk aboot it here.’

Tam’s mouth came open and he stared into the man.

‘Come in, sur.’

Conn shut the door. The room became very small. The man looked out of place in it. He was a tall, thin man, his face very strained and red with the cold night air. He didn’t wear a coat and his suit didn’t fit him well. The atmosphere of warmth and pleasantness was like an affront to him. He and the room didn’t get on together and just by standing in it, he made the place seem colder. It was very quiet.

Old Conn gulped himself awake. Jenny put her hand on his knee to signal him that something was happening. Old Conn stared round at them.

‘Well, sur,’ Tam said. ‘Whit’s a’ this aboot?’

‘Ask yer boay there. He kens.’

He was looking at Angus. Just the two of them facing each other expressed an injustice, the man worn and worried, and Angus burnished with his exertions, looking callous with health. Like a confession, Angus looked down at his hands and rubbed them together.

‘Whit does he mean, Angus?’

‘He kens whit Ah mean. Don’t bloody well worry aboot it. The bloody no-user.’

‘Here, here, sur.’ Tam’s voice was quiet. ‘Ye look like a worrit man. Ye’ve maybe guid reason. But don’t get strong-airmed in ma hoose. Or ye’ll be noddin’ tae the pavement kinna quick. Ah’m askin’ you, Angus. Whit’s this aboot?’

‘Ah’m no shair who the fella is,’ Angus said.

‘Naw, but ye were bloody shair who ma dochter wis. Ye kent her weel enough. Sarah Davidson. Too bloody weel.’

‘Dae ye ken this lassie, Angus?’

‘Aye, Ah dae.’

‘She’s in the family wey then,’ the man said. ‘She’s greetin’ ‘er hert oot there in the hoose. An’ her mither alang wi’ ‘er.’

‘Oh my Goad,’ Jenny said. It was a worry she had always dreaded with her own daughter and she understood what it meant.

‘It’s you that made ‘er that wey.’

‘Wis it?’ Tam was asking.

‘It coulda been.’

‘Whit’s that supposed tae mean?’ The man took a step towards him.

Humility had never been a natural role for Angus and, seeing the man’s threatening stance, his attitude of withdrawal fell off him like a cloak. He straightened up, his eyes widening as he watched the man.

‘Ah’ve a dampt guid mind tae . . .’ The man raised his arm, back-handed.

‘Uh-huh,’ Angus said. ‘That wid be a guid wey tae hiv a daith in the family an’ a’.’

‘Hey, you.’ Tam was pointing at Angus. Talk that wey tae this man an Ah’ll pit yer heid oot through that fuckin’ windy.’

‘Fur Goad’s sake!’ Jenny stood up. ‘There’s a pair lassie expectin’ in that hoose. She’ll be near oot ‘er wits. Noo wid ye stoap shapin’ up like bantam coacks. Whit’s tae be done?’

‘Ye’re richt, missus,’ the man said. That’s whit Ah want tae ken. That’s a dacent lassie Ah’ve goat doon there. A’ her days she’s been dacent. She’s no’ some kinna tail, ye know.’

‘Calm yerself, sur,’ Tam said. There’s only wan thing tae be done. He’ll mairry ‘er.’

The silence grew round Angus. Conn found it remarkable how Angus was able to withstand the pressure of that quietness without flinching. He gazed at the floor. It was a telling moment, one of those times when a privately shaped resolve first comes under the heat of other people’s disapproval and either collapses in the glaze or survives to harden.

‘Ye’ll be mairrying’ the wee lassie, Angus?’ Jenny asked.

Angus was testing. When he was satisfied, he spoke. ‘Naw,’ he said simply. ‘Ah’m no’ exactly shair. But Ah don’t think sae.’

He looked up at the man and it was the man who looked away, shaking his head.

‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’

‘Ah’ll be peyin’ fur it, of coorse,’ Angus added.

‘Peyin’! Whit? Coal an’ a bob or two a week? Whit dae ye think ma lassie is? Some kinna credit hoor?’

‘Well, that’s the wey it is, Ah think,’ Angus said. ‘Ah can see Sarah aboot it again if ye want.’

‘By Christ, ye’ll no’. Ah widny pit ‘er through that. Ah don’t want ‘er contaminatit. Ya bloody no-user!’

Tam stood wincing at a charge he couldn’t refute.

‘Sur,’ he said. This thing isny feenished. If ye let me talk tae ‘im.’

‘Save yer braith, sur. Ah widny want that fur a son-in-law. We’ll manage some wey.’

‘Wait, Mr Davidson,’ Jenny called, but he was already going out and she was left to say to the open door, ‘My Goad, that pair wee lassie. Whit she must be goin’ through this nicht.’

Tam crossed and closed the door. He came back slowly into the room. Angus hadn’t moved, felt himself at bay against his father. He understood the wound constraint with which his father moved. What followed might very well be physical. He made a decision – he wasn’t going to let his father strike him. There was no way he was going to take that without hitting back. He felt a tremor of almost elated nervousness. He couldn’t believe that they could really come to blows and, in the instant of even thinking about it, he desperately didn’t want it to happen. But in this mood it was his father who made the possibilities, and you couldn’t calculate them. Angus had seen him demolish a man for much less than this.

‘Tam!’ Jenny said.

But the force Tam had generated made everybody else just an onlooker. Angus accurately read the pallor in his father’s face. It was the containment of a mounting rage.

‘Noo you explain this tae us,’ Tam said quietly.

‘Hoo dae ye mean?’

‘Noo you explain this tae us,’ Tam said quietly. ‘Fur there must be somethin’ here Ah don’t unnerstaun’. Ye goat this lassie in the family wey. Is that correct?’

‘Ah suppose Ah did.’

‘Dear Goad,’ Jenny sighed.

‘Whit dae ye mean ye suppose?’

‘She an’ me. Ye ken whit Ah mean.’

‘Oh aye. Ah ken whit ye mean.’ Tam hesitated. ‘Is it because ye think she micht no’ hae been quite the thing? Wi’ ither folk like.’

Tam was looking for a way out of his own anger. It took Angus a moment to understand what he meant. When he did, he was too honest to take that escape.

‘Aw naw,’ he said. ‘Ah hivny seen ‘er fur a while. An’ it’s poassible. But Ah don’t believe it fur a second. She’s no’ like that.’

‘Then why wid ye no’ be goin’ tae mairry ‘er?’

‘Feyther. Ah don’t particularly want tae mairry ‘er.’

‘Too fuckin’ late!’ Tam bellowed. ‘Too ‘fuckin’ late. Ye shoulda thocht o’ that before ye did whit ye did.’

‘We didny fill in forms, feyther.’

‘Don’t you be smert wi’ me, boay. Fur Ah canny guarantee no’ tae kick your ribs in.’

Angus breathed noisily.

‘Naw, but Ah can maybe guarantee it fur ye,’ he said.

Conn threw himself on to his father, catching him more or less round the shoulders. The force of his father’s movement swung Conn off the floor so that his feet hit Angus about the waist, knocking him to the side.

‘Don’t dae it, feyther!’ Conn was shouting. ‘Don’t dae it!’

‘Fur Goad’s sake, Tam! Whit’s happenin’ in this hoose?’

Conn realised it was his mother’s voice, though it wasn’t an easy thing to realise. It came to him always receding, like something heard from a train. He bucked on the baffled jerk of his father’s rage. Angus was on one knee. He jumped to his feet. His eyes were flaring. Mick was instantly between them.

‘Feyther!’ he screamed, as if Tam was a long way away. ‘Whit are ye daein’?’

Over Conn’s shoulder Tam was pleading with them to release him from his anger, to
show
him how he couldn’t kill his son. Angus was waiting, breathing as if his lungs were injured.

‘Whit hiv we reared here, Jenny?’ Tam was shouting. ‘Whit hiv we reared in this hoose? Tell me that. He cares fur nothin’! A man comes in wi’ his hert in his haun an’ he disny bat an e’e. He sells his mates fur fuckin’ pennies. An’ he doesny care! Ye canny leeve an’ no care. Ya bastard! Can ye no’ see that? Whit dae ye think that lassie is? Your fuckin’ toay? Ye’re gonny lea’e her tae luk efter your wean the rest o’ ‘er life? Whit’ll she dae? This isny fuckin’ Mayfair, ye know. That’s her fur the rest o’ ‘er days. Naw, naw. She cairries yer wean, ye mairry ‘er. There’s nothin’ else. Who the hell dae ye think you are, no’ tae respect ither folk? Ye care, boay, or ye’re nothin’. You’re deid, son. You’re fuckin’ deid. They’ve jist furgoatten tae bury ye.’

The following silence was broken only by Jenny’s sighs. Conn felt his father subside.

‘Lea’e me alane, son,’ Tam said, pushing him away. He pointed at Angus. ‘You’ve got a choice, son. You mairry that lassie or you can get oot this hoose. The fuckin’ midden-men can collect ye.’

‘Tam, Tam,’ Jenny said. ‘Ye canny say that.’

‘Ah’ve jist said it, Jenny. An’ Ah mean it.’

‘Feyther,’ Mick said. ‘Ye’re wrang. Ye’re completely wrang.’

‘He’s richt, Ah suppose?’

‘Maybe he’s no’. But he’s a wee bit less wrang than you are. Ye canny dae that. Whit dis that lassie want wi’ a man that disny want her? Whit’s the
sense
in whit ye’re daein’.’

‘Ah’ll tell ye the sense,’ Tam said. ‘We walk a nerra line. Ah ken hoo nerra it is. Ah’ve walked it a’ ma days. Us an’ folk like us hiv goat the nearest thing tae nothin’ in this world. A’ that filters doon tae us is shite. We leeve in the sewers o’ ither bastards’ comfort. The only thing we’ve goat is wan anither. That’s why ye never sell yer mates. Because there’s nothin’ left tae buy wi’ whit ye get. That’s why ye respect yer weemenkind. Because whit we make oorselves is whit we are. Because if ye don’t, ye’re provin’ their case. Because the bastards don’t believe we’re folk! They think we’re somethin’ . . . less than that. Well, Ah ken whit Ah believe. It’s only us that can show whit folk are. Whit dae they ken aboot it? Son, it’s easy tae be guid oan a fu’ belly. It’s when a man’s goat two bites an’ wan o’ them he’ll share, ye ken whit he’s made o’. Maist o’ them were boarn blin’. Well, we areny, son. We canny afford tae be blin’. Listen. In ony country in the world, who are the only folk that ken whit it’s like tae leeve in that country? The folk at the boattom. The rest can a’ kid themselves oan. They can afford to hiv fancy ideas. We canny, son. We loass the wan idea o’ who we are, we’re deid. We’re wan anither. Tae survive, we’ll respect wan anither. When the time comes, we’ll a’ move forward thegither, or nut at all. That’s whit Ah’ve goat against you, boay.’ He pointed at Angus. ‘You’re a fuckin’ deserter. Ah don’t harbour deserters. Ye’re wi’ the rest o’ us or ye go elsebit.’

Angus had put his jacket on.

‘Ye’ll no’ hiv tae worry aboot it,’ he said. ‘Is it a’ richt if Ah spend the wan mair nicht here, mither? Ah’ll no’ can get a place tae the morra.’

‘Oh, Goad preserve us,’ Jenny said. ‘Whit a thing fur a boay tae ask his mither. Ye can stey the nicht an’ every nicht, son.’

‘Naw. Ah canny dae that. Ah jist want the wan nicht, if that’s a’ right.’

‘Ye can stey the nicht,’ Tam said. ‘Ah wid dae as much fur a dug.’

Angus walked out. He walked in an utter numbness. His father had defined for him the loneliness he had long been moving towards, given it to him like a map. He paced it out. Later, he would have to work out what he felt about it.

6

The voice came at Conn before he knew where it was coming from.

‘Hey, you! Whaur i’ ye gaun?’

He had to look round for a moment before he located the wooden hatch that had opened in the glass and the thin face that looked out like a greyhound with malnutrition.