The Walk Home Part 20

"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 ma.s.sed 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day, even after he'd heard the Walk pa.s.sing 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 Sat.u.r.day afternoon errands, pa.s.sing 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. Pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 was.h.i.+ng 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.

But Stevie picked up his pace, because those were old thoughts and he meant to keep himself loose of them; all those grim stories Eric told him, more than half his life ago. He wasn't a wee boy now, Stevie thought his life was his own, and he could do what he wanted. He could follow who he liked, or no one. Stevie didn't even know if it was home he was going, or what, he was only at Kelvinhall, still on the wide road. And anyhow, the way he remembered the story, the stranger gave way at daybreak. Jacob had prevailed, that's what the Bible said. Even if he was limping, the angel let him pa.s.s, into his brother's waiting arms. Esau took him back, he was glad to see him home again, and Stevie ducked between cars, thinking how was it that Eric never drew that part?

He got over Partick Cross, and then he cut up the side roads. Still a long way from Drumchapel and his Gran's house, but the way Stevie felt just now, he could keep going till nightfall, maybe beyond. See how far he got.

The next turning took him uphill, and he knew he was miles from Mount Florida and his bedroll, but he didn't stop, Stevie broke into a jog along a parade of shops, all shut. The long street was quiet and empty in the half-light, and he didn't know how late it was, but he kept pa.s.sing close-mouths and lamp posts and corner pubs, thinking he'd soon enough pa.s.s a landmark that would set him on the right road.

He saw a fork up ahead: it was darker up there, and narrow, and still nothing he remembered. So then he didn't feel right.

Stevie slowed up a touch, getting doubtful, thinking he should double back on himself, just to be on the safe side. Maybe try another road, or another night. He was coming to another turning, and he meant to cross when he got there, before he decided. Picking up speed again, glancing over his shoulder to check for cars, he didn't look where he was running. Stevie didn't see the men coming.

There were three of them, and he hit the one in the middle. They just made the corner and smack. The middle guy was a solid ma.s.s; not tall, but wide, and it was like hitting a tree, wallop, full force, shoulder to chest. Stevie's legs gave out, his face hit the man's elbow as he went down, and then he was on the pavement. The man was still standing.

Stevie curled himself up by his feet, head pressed between his palms. His brain felt battered against his skull, and he could hear the other men laughing; they were p.i.s.sing themselves about him. The solid guy was too, but he was leaning over Stevie as well.

"Okay, son?"

Stevie looked up at him, out from between his fingers. The man's eyes swam a bit, and his smile; Stevie smelled his f.a.gs-and-beer breath, and then another voice came from behind him.

"Mon, Frank. Gonnae leavum. It's nearly closin."

One of the others was making to cross the road. He stepped off the kerb, and then Stevie took him in, his football s.h.i.+rt. Stevie looked up, quick, at the first man again: he wasn't wearing green and white hoops, but the third one was. He was standing just a foot or two away and looking at Stevie's legs. The first man held out a hand: "I'll just get the wee fella up."

"He's a dirty Orange c.u.n.t, Frankie. Leavum."

The third one stepped forward and put a toe to Stevie's knee, a sharp kick, just by the patch on his jeans. The first man straightened up, frowning. And then he laughed: "Aw look, an he's got his new shoes on."

Stevie lashed out, he kicked, but they were fast, pulling off his trainers. He fought back, only he couldn't stop them: they stood on his legs, and then there were just too many feet and fists to get past. Stevie had to keep his arms tight about his ears, his head s.h.i.+elded. If he lay quiet, then they hit less. They left him lying after they'd got his shoes off.

The men tied his laces together, Stevie saw them from between his elbows. How they stood and flung his trainers, high into the air above the road. They took it in turns, twice, three times, before they got them tangled, hanging over the telephone wires, stretched across the dark sky, two floors up between the tenements. The men cheered, arms raised, and then they walked, and Stevie lay and looked at his new trainers. Out of reach now, just like his Gran's house.

One of the men, he didn't see which, put his hand on Stevie's head as he pa.s.sed. Pus.h.i.+ng it down, hard, mas.h.i.+ng the side of his face against the tarmac.

Why the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l did it have to be like this?

27.

Return unto me, and I will return unto you.

Malachi (3:7) Glasgow.

Now, or thereabouts.

Graham pitched up at his Mum's house after work, calling up the close to her open doorway: "I swear I've seen Stevie, Maw. Down on the South Side."

This wasn't the only time he'd seen him, so Graham took the last flight fast, telling her: "I was in the van, an it was him. There he was again. On the Cathcart Road, just at the crossin."

Graham was doing out a shopfront by Mount Florida just now, with another two lined up to take him through the autumn. He'd been working back to back, ever since the Walk, not turning jobs down, or contracting out, even if his Mum kept telling him he should. She told him so again this evening, while he kicked off his work boots on her doormat, when all he wanted to talk about was Stevie: "He was standin at the lights, Maw. You hear me? Grey sweats.h.i.+rt, big pair ae auld builders' boots. Same stuff as last time."

It was Graham's third sighting in as many weeks, and even if he couldn't be a hundred per cent, he'd still got to thinking his boy could be back now; maybe he was even sticking around for a bit. Only then his Mum said: "Aw, son."

Like she needed him to tread careful. And like she saw them all the time too, wee hoodies with freckles, only none of them had turned out to be Stevie yet.

So Graham took a breath, slowing up a bit again. Thinking maybe she was right: best not be leaping ahead of themselves. Wasn't like he didn't have doubts; the way Stevie was there and then gone again, soon as he'd parked up, all the cars behind beeping at his slammed brakes.

In his socks now, Graham stepped into the house, took the mug of tea his Mum was holding out; she'd stirred in two sugars to compensate. He let her bring him back down to earth again, gentle as she could.

"You eaten, son?"

"Naw."

He'd been working round the clock, as per usual.

"I'll get mysel somethin," Graham told her. "You sit down, Maw."

They were both still being careful, Graham and his mother, around each other. Graham's Dad said that was all to the good. And he'd told him she liked the way he dropped round like this.

Graham did it most evenings just now: parking up for tea and talk before he drove the last of the home stretch. He'd taken to checking in on his Mum since Eric pa.s.sed, just a few days after the Walk; it was coming up for a month ago, and it had come as such a shock to her as well. His Mum had been to see Eric only the evening before, and she said he'd been tired again, but still busy as he ever was.

She never said it in so many words, but Graham knew his uncle had been drawing.

Graham had been the one who found him.

He'd got in the habit of getting Eric dressed and breakfasted, because the old man had been neglecting himself too much over the summer, in favour of his pictures. Mugs sat unwashed all over the surfaces, and he missed out on meals entirely; Eric always was his own worst enemy, but Graham still found himself driving over there. Not that he could have explained himself. He just couldn't stand by and let the old man slide, so he'd let himself in, just like most mornings, only Graham knew there was something amiss, soon as he couldn't get the door to the living room open.

Eric had died on the floor. Except Graham didn't tell his Mum that, when he'd called her. He'd figured the old man had stayed up too late at his desk, trying to get his new picture right, and then he'd been too tired to make it to his bed.

Graham had decided his Mum didn't need to know that either, so before she got there, he'd already lifted Eric onto the sofa; laid his big limbs onto the cus.h.i.+ons, curled over like he was sleeping. Graham had fetched a blanket too, from Eric's bed, and put it over him, but not his face. So that's how she saw him when she came in.

"You go on, Maw," Graham told her now. She'd followed him into the kitchen, so he steered her out again, back towards her armchair. He cut himself a sandwich, and went to join her.

His Mum would sit there half the night, given half a chance; Graham's Dad had told him how she dropped off some nights, there where she was, waking up hips stiff, neck cricked, when he came in from driving.

His Dad reckoned it was the shock, the loss of her brother; she needed time to do her grieving. But Graham had sat with his Mum these past few weeks, all these evenings, telly on in the corner, only he could see she wasn't watching, and so sometimes it felt more like she was waiting. For he didn't know what. Him to say something useful, or his Dad to come in the door. Or maybe even Stevie to call. Graham figured that would be about right: July was his last, which meant she was just about due another. So anyhow, Graham sat with his mother. And he'd got to thinking: maybe she hoped as much as he did, only she couldn't bring herself to say it.

His own phone rang off the hook these days: guys he had working needing their orders, or suppliers wanting paid up front. Graham had had to get himself organised, and it had been some steep learning curve, taking on as much as he did, but he felt it levelling out. He'd even managed a drink with his Dad a couple of days ago, his first in however long; they'd met up at a place in town, after Graham finished up for the evening, just in time for last orders. No games at the snooker club, or practice nights, Graham had no time for anything but work and family just lately.

His Dad told him that's what a man's life should look like; he said he was rising to the task. Graham didn't know if that's what it was. But it was no bad thing anyhow, to feel broad-shouldered, do things you never thought you would.

He'd found his uncle, he'd lifted him and covered him; Graham had stayed with him too, until his Mum got there, and even after. It would have been wrong to just up and leave him, but it wasn't only that, not for Graham. Eric's dying had left him quiet. Like sleep taking him after a long day's graft, or like he'd worked something out, even if he didn't have the words. Graham never was much good at explaining himself, but in any case, sitting quiet with Eric was the last thing he'd have thought could happen. And so even now, sitting here with his Mum and thinking about his uncle being gone, Graham got that same ground-s.h.i.+fting-under-him feeling of life going on; full of surprises.

So much of life still to get on with.

"You should get tae your bed, son," his Mum told him, soft, from her armchair: he had work again tomorrow.

"Aye so should you, but."

Graham gave as good as he got. And got a smile from her.

This is what they did just now: they sat and kept each other right of an evening. Quiet, companionable. Graham thought that was no bad thing either.

But it was late now, his piece was eaten, about time he took his plate back into the kitchen. Graham wasn't sleepy, he still had half a mind to drive back to the South Side, call his Dad on the way, see if they couldn't comb the streets down there together. Him in his van, his Dad in his cab; both on the hands-free, windows rolled down, looking out for Stevie. Only Graham wanted his Mum in bed first.

"Mon now," he told her. "Because you'll only be up early."

He knew what she was like: she might wait up late, but she didn't spend her days sitting idle. She'd got them all to Eric's funeral, and now she had his flat to sort through: all those box files. What to hold on to?

"Aye, right you are, son."

She made a show of being annoyed, rising stiff from her armchair, but Graham could see she liked it, him taking charge here, taking care of her.

"I'll take it easy," his Mum promised, as she went to get her face washed, teeth brushed. Graham laid odds she'd be up at Eric's again tomorrow.

She and his Dad had made a start on the kitchen cupboards, to make a bit of headway through the easier stuff, and Graham's brothers said they'd be on hand to help now, most weekends. His Mum had all her sons with her last Sat.u.r.day, two of her daughters-in-law as well, and it looked like it had been a comfort, having Eric's kitchen full of family, even if it had come too late for him to see it.

Graham had heard his Mum telling Malky Jnr. as much.

And how she'd be leaving Eric's desk till last.

So Graham couldn't help but think now of all the sketches locked inside: his uncle's new drawing, still unfinished before he'd died.

Eric had kept his desk shut when he came calling; the old man had made a point of it. Not that Graham had been tempted to look. He'd seen enough that riverbank morning, and he'd made his thoughts known. Nothing to be gained, raking over those old coals, so Graham had made his uncle tea and toast, and then left him to his dark drawings.

There had been some Graham liked, even so, over the years; he gave Eric that much. His biro sketches of John Joe's pigeons, done on the backs of envelopes. And the one in his Mum's hall too, that Graham could just make out in the telly glow: all his brothers, lined up and smiling, eating ice-creams. He could see why his Mum still kept it.

Graham had even found some good ones in Lindsey's box that time, not so long before she'd left him. Pictures of Papa Robert, drawings that caught his best side. The old man, not so old then, secateurs in hand, standing by his close steps, deadheading a rose bush almost as big as he was.

If it was something like that, Eric's last drawing, Graham thought that would be something. Hope in his last days; Graham even wished it for him. New scheme, new blooms, and Papa Robert's staunch faith, that life could start anew for them.

Papa Robert's roses died before him. Two of old age and too-cold winters, and the last of them in the scheme's worst days, when Graham was a boy. It was felled overnight, by a handful of wee s.h.i.+tebags, armed with thick gloves and hacksaws, out way beyond their bedtime. And Papa Robert was near the end by then, but he still came out roaring when he heard them, only they'd got through the trunk by that stage, and then they'd flung the bush at him, thorns and all, before they ran off crowing.

Such a long time ago now, but Graham still remembered: how the neighbours had a whip-round in the days that came after, enough to buy three new roses. Only Papa Robert would have none of it.

He said they'd never be like his mother's.

Or half as good as the ones he'd planted with Eric.

And then Graham thought how Eric shouldn't have been a draughtsman, even if he'd turned out a good one. He should have got his Highers, maybe he should have gone to university. Who knew what hopes Papa Robert had had for him?