Flood (19 page)

'That girl is nothing but trouble and you know it.'

Sandy wondered if this were an act for his benefit. It did not seem like one. So was Rian lying to him then? Was she more than she seemed? Who could he trust to tell him the truth? The answer was simple - no one.

The sun broke through the fine sheen of rain. Sandy stared at the small window. Dirt was now visible on the inside of the glass. The faint smell of soup touched his nostrils and pushed further back the tang of mothballs. It was a good smell; rich like the soup his grandmother had made, vegetables thick with a hint of stock. His stomach felt suddenly empty, though he had eaten not two hours before.

The pot was soon steaming. Two plates were placed on the table, either side of the small television, then two slices of thin white bread, and two discoloured spoons. Sandy warily examined the spoon before him. He knew that it would taste of metal and the thought made him shiver.

'Put out that roll-up while you eat.' It was a soft command.

Robbie flicked the butt out of the window.

'Satisfied?' he said. Kitty ignored him. She served the soup and squeezed in beside Sandy again. He felt his leg tingle as hers touched it. He drew it away awkwardly, and felt his other leg brushing against Robbie.

'Are you still at school, Sandy?' asked Kitty.

'Just until Christmas.' He drank the soup without letting the spoon enter his mouth. Kitty was studying him.

'And you've sat your exams then?'

He nodded. 'I got the results this morning.'

Tou never told me that,' said Robbie, taking big gulps of soup.

'You never asked.'

'Were the results good?' asked Kitty. Sandy nodded. Tour mum must be pleased, eh?'

'She doesn't know yet. I'm going to tell her tonight. It'll be a surprise for her.'

Kitty chuckled again. She was rolling a cigarette of her own. She did the whole thing expertly with her one hand and her teeth. Really, it was hard to believe that she had only one arm. Sandy tried not to stare.

Tou know how this happened?' she said, the cigarette wagging in her mouth. 'I'll tell you. I was mauled by a dog that was set on me by a farmer up north. Near Inverness, wasn't it, Robbie? He saw me coming up his drive and he set his bloody dog on me, the bastard. I wouldn't see no doctor afterwards, you see. Then it hurt too much, but by then it was too late. They had to amputate it. Robbie was about thirteen then, wasn't you?' He nodded, his eyes on the empty bowl in front of him. 'Aye, thirteen he was. You know what we did? A few of the menfolk and wee Robbie here, they snaked up to the farm one afternoon while the farmer was about his business and they killed the dog.' She chuckled mirthlessly. Her eyes were strong upon Sandy's. His stomach turned the soup in a slow, sickening revolution. The matter in her left eye was like a tiny maggot, alive and wriggling. 'They stoned it to death and threw it into the farmhouse. We had to get out of that neck of the country in a hurry, I can tell you. But it was worth it.' She laughed this time. Her mouth was a deep red cavern surrounded by teeth like chippings of coal. Robbie was scraping his spoon across the base of his bowl.

'I've got to go now,' said Sandy. 'Excuse me. Thank you for the soup and the tea.' He was aware of his false formality, aware that it showed his weakness. He blanched. The old woman slid from her seat to let him out.

'I'll stay on for a bit,' said Robbie. 'Aunt Kitty and me have things to talk about.' He reached across the table for another roll-up.

'It was nice seeing you,' Sandy said to Kitty.

'And you, son.' She chuckled, knowing the truth. 'Come and see us any time.'

He stepped outside and breathed in the grass-heavy air.

The dog stood up and barked again. He ignored it. A man watched him from the door of one of the other caravans. He was scratching his grizzled chin as if sizing the boy up for a potential meal. Sandy, his heart thudding, walked smartly away.

'Sandy!'

He turned and saw Robbie running awkwardly towards him, as if he had never run in his life. Sandy waited for him.

Robbie walked the last few yards and puffed on his cigarette.

He stopped beside his friend and stared into the distance.

He mumbled something, then looked back towards the caravans.

'Promise you won't tell Aunt Kitty,' he repeated. 'Promise you won't ever tell her or anyone else.' Sandy nodded.

'Promise,' said Robbie.

'I promise.'

'Okay.' He took a gulp of air. His eyes were like a mongrel's. 'Listen then. We never killed the dog. None of us had the guts. We sat in the woods for a while, had a smoke, then went back to the camp and told everyone our story. We said that we'd best be moving. We moved away so that she

wouldn't find out that we'd not done it. It would have killed her and killed us if we'd confessed. So don't feel bad about it, okay?' He put a hand gently on Sandy's shoulder. Sandy nodded. He was about to say something, but Robbie was already starting away. 'See you later,' he called back. 'Come up to the house.'

'Fine,' yelled Sandy. He walked away, sure in his heart that Rian had been lying to him about her brother and her aunt. He did not want to believe it, yet the evidence was before his eyes like the scenery. He could accept it or not; it was reality. He frowned. There was something he had meant to ask Aunt Kitty. The meaning of an itchy nose. That was it: what was the meaning of an itchy nose?

George Patterson had locked the door, pulled down the blind, and was busying himself with the small change at his till when a sharp rapping on the door told him that his friend was waiting to be let in. He came from behind the counter, crossed to the door, peered through the glass, and, a smile settling on his face, drew back the lock.

'Hello, George. Busy day?'

'Not bad, Matt. Yourself?'

Matt Duncan scratched his cheek. He had not shaved that day and the bristles were iron-grey and hard.

'Doing away, George,' he said. 'That's all we can do, eh?

Just doing away.'

'Aye, Matt, it's the truth.' Patterson relocked the door and ushered the smaller man through to the back room where hair was occasionally cut. 'Go on through, Matt,' he said.

Tfou know your way. I'll be with you in a minute.' He went back to his counting, his fingers springy and agile. He totalled the day, scratched with his pen on a piece of paper, put the paper and the notes in his pocket, closed the till and locked it. Then he walked slowly through to the back room, opened another door, and was in a tiny room which was comfortably furnished. Matt Duncan was opening a can of beer.

'It's grand to have a beer these nights,' he said, handing the can to Patterson.

George Patterson sat down. He knew that Matt Duncan was a bit of a rogue, but he was an old friend. Patterson did not have many friends. He rejected invitations the way other men refused to play with their children. Yet he had known Matt Duncan, who was five years older than him, since his schooldays. Only in the past five or so years, however, had they become good friends. Both had bitter pasts to complain about, and both had patient ears as long as they knew that their own complaints would be listened to eventually.

Patterson watched the foxy old man sink into an ancient armchair. The room contained two armchairs, a small writing desk, and a fridge. The beer had been kept in the fridge. It was chilled, and the bubbles caused Patterson to burp silently and often. It was gassy stuff this; not the same as you got in the pub. Eventually they would go out to the pub, but it was nice to sit and talk together first.

'Weather turned stormy today,' said Matt Duncan.

'Aye,' said Patterson, 'but not before time. It's been a good few weeks since we had some rain. I could see the paper bags and rubbish blowing about outside, just like tumbleweeds in a Western.'

They both chuckled, sharing as they did a liking for old cowboy films. Duncan liked novels about the West, too, but George Patterson found them banal. They did not discuss these novels in case they should argue. Neither could afford to lose the other, though neither really knew why.

'It was terrible. I got caught in the rain as I was going down to the bookie's.'

'Win anything today, Matt?'

Duncan's face screwed in disgust. 'Not a bloody thing,' he said. 'But Dod Mathieson, a man that's not needing money, he won naturally.' His voice was bitter. He hated the man who had won. Td like to know how he manages to win so bloody much and I lose. I think he's in on some game with the manager of that shop. They're always gassing together, yet the bugger would hardly give me the time of day. Aye, there's something funny there all right. You take my word for it.'

Patterson shook his head in sympathy. Yes, the world seemed cruel to Matt Duncan. The grass was always greener. You lose a son, you lose your job. You've lost everything, and you're bitter. Patterson was not himself a bitter man, not really. He fed on guilt instead. He was, he knew, worse off than Matt Duncan, for he could not reveal his guilt, though often he had come close. Poor Hugh. What good had it all been? He had to feed perpetually on his shame, with no one knowing. Well, hardly anyone.

'Mind you, Matt Duncan's not a man to go telling on people. If they've got shady dealings, it's up to the shop owner to find out. He must be raking it in if he can afford to ignore a swindle like the nice one they've got going.' The conspiracy was now an incontrovertible fact for Duncan. He drank his beer noisily, as if its flavour were the taste of his rage.

'Are you sure there is a swindle, Matt?' ventured Patterson hesitantly. 'Couldn't it all be luck?'

'Of course I'm sure, George,' snapped back the small, sharp-faced man. 'What do you take me for? I ken what their game is. You can't keep anything like that hidden from Matt Duncan. I'm too fly for them, you see. They think I'm dunnert.' His mouth was a savage twist and his breath came short and noisily. Patterson kept quiet and drank his lager while the tumult continued. There were a lot of twisted men like Matt Duncan throughout the mining towns of Fife.

Usually they were not the best workers, had lived bitter, ignorant married lives, and had been brought up in similar households. In other words, their hate was handed down to them from their parents, handed down through the generations like a christening shawl. It seemed an attitude peculiar to the working class. Patterson often mused over it. It appeared to him an easy way out, an excuse for not having done anything in life. If you succeeded you were 'lucky5, or a crook; other factors did not enter into it. If you failed, you had never had a chance. Everything had been against you in the first place. A shiver went through Patterson. He had been living in this community for fifty-five years. Luckily, his father had been a professional person. That was regarded as his lucky beginning. Only once had he felt as Duncan felt all the time. Just that once. His mind recoiled from the self-hatred and the grotesque thought of that isolated time. He shook his can.

'Empty?' asked Duncan.

Tes, Matt. Very empty,' said Patterson thoughtfully. 'I'll get my coat and we can go to the hotel for a proper drink.'

'Fine,' said Duncan, patting his pockets. 'Ach,' he said as always, 'I've forgotten my wallet again, George, and that thief of a bookmaker cleaned me out. Shall I run up to the house and fetch it?' Patterson, as always, shook his head.

'No need for that, Matt. No need for that at all.' He even smiled.

His mother had invited Andy Wallace round for an evening meal. They were planning to go to Kirkcaldy afterwards to see a film. The three of them sat around the seldom-used dining table and the only sound for a time was that of good cutlery against china.

'Haven't you had your results yet, Sandy?' said Andy Wallace finally.

'Got them this morning,' replied Sandy, toying with a potato. His mother put down her fork. Her hands lay against either side of her plate as if she were about to ask for more.

'Well?' she said.

'Five As, a B, and a C

'Well, well, well.' Andy Wallace sat back in his chair, smiling, looking across at Mary. 'That's a very good performance.

Better than your marks in your prelims.'

Mary Miller tried to squeeze her son's hand, but he slid it away from her and scratched his nose.

'With results like those,' continued Andy Wallace, 'you'd be daft to leave at Christmas. Why not stay on for your Highers?'

'Yes, Sandy. Stay on.'

Sandy looked at his mother and his English teacher. He was surprised by the emotion in his mother's voice. Andy Wallace, though trying not to show it, was astonished at himself. A little while ago he had been hoping that Sandy would leave school at the earliest opportunity. Now here he was telling the boy to stay on. He was pleased at his morality; he had the teaching reflex.

'I'll think about it,' said Sandy.

Tou do that,' said Andy Wallace. Mary smiled at both of them. It was like being part of a family. Recently she had been worrying about Andy's attitude towards her. For how long would he continue to be so patient? She could not know, but she sensed his growing frustration. If only she could make love, just the once, then it would be all right. If only.

'You could go to university with marks like that if you were to stick in,' said Andy, anxious not to let the table recede into another silence. He pronged four peas on to the end of his fork and grabbed them between his teeth. 'They're as good as I ever got,' he said.

Sandy, however, had retreated back into his meal. He cut the meat delicately. He concentrated on his plate. He did not want this conversation to continue. His mother's cheeks were a proud red. She looked more than ever like a princess trapped in a tower. Sandy remembered the poem he had written about Rian. It could have applied just as well to his mother. Her hair was tied simply behind her. Silver through black. Metal through water. She seemed to glimmer in the pale light.

Sandy was looking forward to having the house to himself for the evening. He was going to invite Rian round to visit in his mother's absence. He smiled at the thought. His mother noticed his smile and returned it. He had not the heart to turn away from her in her happiness.