Authors: Rachel Seiffert
Pride of Drumchapel was well down in numbers. Malky said they were all getting older, most likely getting married and thinking better at long last; same as what had happened to his band. There were fewer turning out to follow as well. Not even nearly like the send-off it used to be in years gone by, and hardly any young folk. Mostly it was just hard cases and the aged: last year, Malky said the Walk looked more like the walking wounded.
He told Brenda he stood well back from the crowd anyhow; it was just Graham he was turning out for.
Brenda couldn’t go and do the same. She could never like Graham drumming. But the rain kept on coming, and it had her minded how Shug had found the band plastic capes one year, to cover their uniforms. They were printed with union flags, with elasticated bags to match, like daft wee shower hats, to put over their peaked caps. Brenda pictured Graham like that, and it was hard not to feel fond of him when she did.
She thought he’d be sodden already, before they’d even started; the rain would be running down his neck, soaking his shoulders and back. But it would dance on his snare too, whenever the skin was struck—jumping pearls—and the flute players would shake the water out of their instruments in the lulls, without breaking stride. If this drizzle kept up there’d be hardly anyone out to watch them. But a bit of rain wouldn’t stop them, on down through town and beyond. Brenda sat and pictured her son, damp and happy with his drum, somewhere among them.
Stevie heard the Walk from where he lay, wrapped in his bedroll.
He’d got out of the house, just like Jozef told him; he’d left the guy to stew in his own juice. Out on the street, Stevie got his head down, heading for Mount Florida, the empty tenement and the splintered window frame.
A couple of the flats were still unlocked from when he and Marek had been looking through for stuff, so Stevie got inside and found himself a second-floor corner. He’d laid out his bedroll, and made his phone call.
Hard to sleep after that. It had got harder over the summer, thinking of his Gran, and if he could go back to her. He’d thought of all the family out there in Drumchapel, Eric too. If they were waiting. Or still tearing strips off each other. Stevie could still see his Dad, that day on the riverbank, tearing up fistfuls of Eric’s pages, and it all had him curling over with that
churned-up mixture in his guts, of wanting to go home and not; of wanting the courage.
He spent Friday lying low, checking through the other flats. Finding dust sheets and working taps and sockets, and a builders’ kettle as well, to plug in next to his radio. Getting a corner kitted out mostly helped to settle his nerves, and Stevie was back in his bedroll by the time the rain hit. Dry inside, he’d slept, until he heard the bands. Still half-sunk in dreams. They had his mind turning back.
Stevie had only been on one Walk with his Dad. He was eight then, and Shug said if he was coming, he was to stay the distance. No whining for a carry when his feet hurt, or sitting down by the side of the road, he was to go the full fourteen miles: Drumchapel to Glasgow Green in the centre, and then all the way back out again. It wasn’t just him that Shug gave a talking to: come dawn on the big day, he got the whole band gathered at the snooker club, telling them the city was a tricky place when the Walk passed through. Tempers got frayed. Folk took sides.
“You know what folk can get like. When they put away a skinful.”
A skinful. It was that odd word Stevie remembered, and Shug’s caution:
“Auld wounds. They’re easy torn in drink. Easy tae rip some fresh wans.”
He said there’d be people in the crowd, looking to start a fight.
“Folk fae baith sides, aye?”
Shug wasn’t one for soft soap, but he did arrange the drums so Stevie could walk behind his Dad.
Stiff in his borrowed uniform and boots, Stevie had to skip to keep stride as they started off. But he loved the snares, sharp and crisp, and the quick-smart feeling he got from keeping step, with his Dad and all the rest. The bass thump was best: that whack in his belly, every time the big drum was struck. Stevie saw it in the people’s blinking faces too, following along the sides of the road: thump, jump.
He wasn’t meant to watch the crowd, Shug had told him:
“Eyes front, aye? No left or right. You’re no tae spoil the line.”
But Stevie couldn’t help it. He liked it that folk were excited and shoving to keep up with the Pride. Folk walked alongside, more coming all the way; it was like the band pulled them, and it had Stevie’s heart jumping, to be there in the middle of this.
The flutes sang out, all through the early morning, off the scheme and through the western suburbs; kids watching them from behind their bedroom curtains, heads turning on all the early birds out for pints of milk and Saturday papers.
They came into town down the wide Garscube Road to where the motorway spanned it: it made a high arch for them to march through, with its great concrete pillars. The city centre on the far side, they had to go under, and men and boys ran ahead to hear them, ringing out against the tall bridge, drums and rhythm drowning out the traffic.
The cars had to stop for them in the city streets, that were long and dead straight, with high buildings each side. The band had come miles by that stage, they’d been playing for a good few hours, and Stevie’s feet were hot then, tight inside his boots. His Dad had made him wear two pairs of socks, so when they stopped at Blythswood Square to wait for the Grand Lodge, Stevie sat down at the kerbside to take one set off.
More bands were arriving there all the time, from all sides,
and lodges with them. Stevie watched them while he struggled with his laces, lining the square, and spilling out onto the side streets. So many people. From all over Glasgow and beyond: banners held high, lodge names and numbers,
Giffnock True Blues, Larkhall Defenders
.
“Boots on!” Shug was shouting. “Now! You hear me?”
Stevie’s Dad lifted him to his feet, pulling him into line.
“Stay wae me, son. Stay behind.”
So then they were walking again, but all together now, full force; all massed behind the Grand Lodge. More drums about Stevie than he’d ever known, and flutes so close he could feel each note. It was a long downhill march from there, all the way to the centre, and Stevie saw how they were right at the heart of things when he rounded the corner.
His gaze was held by it all: the banners and uniforms and the dark ranks of suits, the Orange Walk filling out the whole long length of St. Vincent Street.
It wasn’t just the cars that were stopped here, it was people too: all the Saturday shoppers held tight at the sides of the road, and Stevie watched them as he walked on, to see if they felt the bright flutes like he did. Only they didn’t follow, they just stood, and some of their faces were fearful, some angry, still others just shook their heads. It had Stevie slowing, missing steps.
Then down by the Gallowgate and the cobbled streets, he saw two boys darting out from the sidelines. Both in green-and-white Celtic tops, they shook off the holding arms of the crowd, and dived into the striding marchers. Stevie caught flashes of them, just ahead of him, trying to flit across the Walk. Just for the thrill of it, it looked like, they ran the gauntlet; dodging between the drummers, ducking punches, and flung drumsticks. They made it to the far side, their fists held high, and their faces
split with smiles. But then they were grabbed, by grown men from the back of the crowd; men who Shug had warned about. The boys were shoved to the pavement, Stevie saw them as he passed. Kicked when they were down, swift and vicious. Skirling flutes and bloodied mouths.
It was over so fast, he didn’t know if he’d seen right. Stevie’s head was too full of the drum noise, all that rattling, like it was inside his skull they were battering, and he had to keep up as well, because his Dad was still striding in front, still playing, and so were the others. Shug was behind, so Stevie didn’t dare turn and check; he just kept his eyes to the front, on his Dad’s boots, and his own ongoing footfalls.
At the Saltmarket, he felt the blisters, smarting at his heels, in between his toes. They were worse after the break, after they’d sat down at Glasgow Green for all the speeches, and his Dad had fetched him a roll and a biscuit. Stevie wanted to ask him if he’d seen those boys and what was done to them. He wanted to climb up onto his Dad’s shoulders and stay there, not get back to his feet. But he was mindful of what Shug had said, about going the distance, and of the earful he might get too, if he kept on at his Dad. None of the rest of the band were footsore, so Stevie kept his legs stiff, going back across the park, and that eased the rubbing just enough.
The sores burst going back through town, and wept, but they’d dried by the time they passed the West End. Stevie’s feet were still hot, but numb by that stage, and he was glad he’d done no complaining.
His socks had to be peeled away from his skin when they got back to the snooker club, late afternoon. The band got the drinks in, while Stevie’s Dad took him to the Gents to see to his feet; he sat him up on the window ledge above the sinks. The
feeling rushed back in, sharp and stinging, after his socks were off, and Stevie pushed his face to the frosted glass and bars; no sobbing, just tears, that he pushed away with the backs of his hands, and prayed his Dad wouldn’t see. Had his Dad seen those boys?
“Dinnae take it too hard, son.” He had his eyes down, on Stevie’s toes, telling him he’d seen worse. “Have tae take the rough wae the smooth.”
Stevie’s Dad washed the blisters under the tap, and then dried his feet with paper towels. Slow and careful, holding them in his big hands, whistling “Follow Follow” softly through his teeth.
They left to go home a couple of pints later, and once they were out of sight of the club doors, his Dad reached down and hoisted Stevie onto his shoulders, gave him a coal-carry back up the hill.
Stevie stayed in the Mount Florida tenement most of Saturday, even after he’d heard the Walk passing back again on the home stretch. He’d barely been into town all these weeks since he’d arrived. Not sure he wanted to be seen yet, Stevie had stuck to the South Side, where no one knew him. Only come late afternoon he was starving.
The side streets were quiet and damp, but the rain had stopped, and on the Cathcart Road, the traffic was flowing past all the shopfronts.
Stevie looked left and right: no sign now of banners or crowds or lodges, just cars and bikes and buses. Out on the schemes and the outskirts, he knew the bands would be in the bars now, their drinking time just getting started. But folk here were going
about their Saturday afternoon errands, passing Stevie like he was one of them, standing there on the pavement.
The puddles were bright under the clearing sky. Another Walk day over with. Passed off without incident.
The city was getting on with life, so Stevie joined it, buying himself rolls and eating them from the bag, moving on, grateful of the cool and being outside. He passed bus stops, and folk waiting, chatting; Stevie took in the voices. All these weeks here, he’d mostly just been listening to Polish.
When he crossed the Clyde and looked out at all the bridges, the wind across the river was fresh and Stevie was only in short sleeves, but he had money in his pocket. It was more than enough to tide him over the summer weeks, so he made straight for the shops on Argyle Street.
He bought himself a hoody first, grey, like his old one. It was dead clean and new next to his old trainers, so he decided to buy some better ones. He tried on five pairs before he made his choice; Stevie had never spent so much all in one go. And then the girl on the till smiled at him too.
The shops were shutting when he got outside, but he looked just right in all the wide windows he passed, cutting up Hope Street and beyond. Stevie looked up and about himself at all the city buildings, for the first time since he got back here. A few were new to him, but even the old ones looked fine somehow: washed by the rain, solid sandstone proud against the evening.
He cut a zigzag path, taking his time, taking it all in, this city he’d grown in, and run from: still the same place, all told, but different now in the details. Maybe it was even different enough for him to stay on, for a while anyhow.
Stevie was nearing the West End when it started getting dark; he saw the big museum and Kelvingrove Park. The streets were
broad here, all streetlamp and shadows and rushing with taxis, and they made him feel stirred up, walking and walking along the pavements, remembering how it had felt, walking in step with his Dad.
It felt like ages back. Stevie thought he’d been just a wee boy then, half a lifetime ago, or more than. But then it felt like days ago he’d heard the bands, and it was only this morning. Stevie still had that new-shoes spring in his step anyhow, even with the long day behind him, and he’d managed to come this far without thinking about it too much: if he was headed to his Gran’s, or to his Dad’s, or anywhere but.
Stevie had been keeping himself from thinking, just keeping on moving, only his thoughts had been loosened by walking. And now it was evening, so maybe his Gran would be cooking, or she’d be washing up. So then Stevie pictured himself: walking up her road, up the steps to her close, and being buzzed in. The same way he’d pictured it, over and over, since he’d got back to Glasgow. Coming home with no questions asked. How he could walk up her stairs, if only the door would be standing open when he got there. No one wringing their hands, or going over the same old ground. His Gran in the kitchen, Grandad Malky pulling on his driving shoes; telly on in the big room, sofa ready, so he could just lie down there, listen to the rattle of the pans. Just like his old life, but moving onwards.
No life without pain, son
. Eric’s words came back to him, along with that riverbank day and his drawings. Jacob’s homecoming was a sore one, or at least that long night and the terrible fight that came before it, and it minded Stevie of what the old man had told him: how the angel touched his hip, he only touched it, but he put it out of joint, and after that Jacob always walked with a limp.