Glue (2 page)

— Dinnae pretend tae care aboot thaim, Alice Lawson scoffed, her voice rising steadily, implacably, like a jet engine taking off, — yir quick enough tae walk oot oan thaim! Dinnae pretend that!

Henry Lawson shuffled around to check who’d heard. Met one nosy gape with a hard stare until it averted. Two old fuckers, a couple. Interfering auld bastards. Speaking through his teeth, in a strained whisper, he said to her, — Ah’ve telt ye, they’ll be looked eftir. Ah’ve fuckin well telt ye that. Ma ain fuckin bairns, he snapped at her, the tendons in his neck taut.

Henry knew that Alice was always driven to believe the best in people. He fancied that he could summon enough controlled outrage,
enough injured innocence into his tone of voice to suggest that her audacity in believing that he (for all his faults, of which he’d be the first to admit) could leave his own children unprovided for, was overstepping the mark, even accounting for emotions running high in the break-up of their relationship. Indeed, it was just those sort of allegations that had practically driven him into the arms of Paula McKay, a spinster of the Parish of Leith.

The fine Paula, a young woman of great virtue and goodness which had repeatedly been called into question by the embittered Alice. Was not Paula the sole carer for her father George, who owned the Port Sunshine Tavern in Leith and who was stricken with cancer? It would not be long now and Paula would need all the help she could to get through this difficult time. Henry would be a tower of strength.

And his own name had been continually sullied, but Henry was graciously prepared to accept that people tended to say things they didn’t mean in emotionally fraught times. Did he not also know the pain of the breakdown of their relationship? Was it not harder for him, he being the one who had to leave his children? Looking down and across at them Henry let his eyes glisten and a lump constrict his throat. He hoped Alice caught that gesture and that it would be enough.

It seemed as if it was. He heard burbling noises, like the stream below them, he fancied, and he was moved to put his arm round her shaking shoulders.

— Please stay, Henry, she shuddered, pressing her head into his chest, filling her nostrils with the scent of Old Spice still fragrant on his cheese-grater chin. Henry was not so much a five-o’clock-shadow man, as a lunchtime-shadow man, having to shave at least twice a day.

— There, there, Henry cooed. — Dinnae you be worryin. We’ve got the bairns, yours n mine, he smiled, reaching over and tousling young Terry’s mop of curls, considering that Alice really should take the boy to the barber’s mair often. He was like Shirley Temple. It could cause the laddie to grow up funny.

— Ye never even asked how he got oan at school. Alice sat up straight, fused with a new bitterness as she focused again on what was happening.

— You never gave me the chance, Henry retorted in tetchy impatience. Paula was waiting. Waiting for his kisses, for that comforting arm that was now round Alice. Crying, puffy, sagging Alice. What a contrast with Paula’s youthful body; tight, lithe, unmarked by childbirth. There really could be no contest.

Thinking, beyond his words, smells and strong arm, about what was actually happening and letting the pain pulse hard and unremittingly in her chest, Alice managed to snap, — He cried and cried and cried. He gret his eyes oot.

This angered Henry. Terry was older than the rest of his class, missing a year’s schooling due to his meningitis. He should have been the
last
one to cry. It was Alice’s fault, she spoiled him, still treated him like a baby because of his sickness. There was nothing wrong with the boy now. Henry was about to mention Terry’s hair, about how she had him looking like a wee lassie, so what else could she expect from him? But Alice was now staring at him, her eyes blazing in accusation. Henry looked away. She stared at his jawline, his heavy growth, and then found herself looking at Terry.

The laddie had been so ill just eighteen months ago. He’d barely survived. And Henry was walking out on all of them, walking out for her: dirty, flighty wee hoor.

She let the savage realisation just throb in her chest and didn’t try to cower and brace herself for it.

Still upright and proud, Alice was feeling his arm limp, across her shoulders. Surely the next pulse of racking sickness wouldn’t be as bad as that one

When would it get better, when would the horror abate, when would she, they, be somewhere else

He was leaving them for her.

And then the anchor of his arm was gone and Alice was drowning in the void of the space around her. In her peripheral vision she could see him, swinging Yvonne in the air, then gathering up the children and huddling them together; whispering important but encouraging instructions, like a school football coach giving his players a half-time pep talk.

— Your daddy’s got a new job so he’ll be working away a lot. See how upset Mum is? Henry didn’t see Alice first sit up rigid, then slump in defeat at his words; it was as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. — That means you two have tae help her out. Terry, ah don’t want tae hear any mair nonsense aboot you greetin at the school. That’s for daft wee lassies, he told his son, making a fist and pressing it under the boy’s chin.

Henry then fished in his trouser pockets, producing a couple of two-bob bits. Crushing one into Yvonne’s hand, he watched her expression stay neutral while Terry’s eyes went wide and wild in anticipation.

— Mind what ah sais, Henry smiled at his son, before giving him the same treatment.

— Will ye still see us sometimes, Dad? Terry asked, eyes on the silver in his hand.

— Of course, son! We’ll go tae the fitba. See the Jam Tarts!

This made Terry’s spirits rise. He smiled at his dad, then looked again at the two-bob bit.

Alice was behaving so strangely, Henry considered, checking that his tie was straight as he planned his exit. She was just sitting there, all buckled up. Well, he’d said his piece, given her every reassurance. He’d be round to check on the kids, take them out, a shake at the Milk Bar. They liked that. Or chips at Brattisanni’s. But there was little to be gained in talking further to Alice. It would only antagonise her and be bad for the kids. Best just slip off quietly.

Henry nipped past the tables. He gave the old cunts the eye again. They looked back at him in contempt. He stole up to their table. Tapping his nose, Henry told them with a cheery coldness, — Keep that oot ay other people’s business, or yi’ll git it fuckin broke, right?

The old couple were speechless at his audacity. Holding his stare for a second, Henry gave a beaming smile, then headed through the back door to the pub, without stopping to look at Alice or the kids.

Best not cause a scene.

— Bloody nerve, Davie Girvan shouted and stood up, making to follow Henry before being restrained by his wife Nessie. — Sit doon, Davie, dinnae git involved wi rubbish. That’s just trash, that.

Davie reluctantly took his seat. He didn’t fear the man, but he didn’t want to make a scene in front of Nessie.

In the bar, on his way out the front of the pub, Henry exchanged a few nods and ‘how’s-it-gaun’s. Old Doyle was there, with one of his
laddies, Duke he thought, and some other nutter. What a clan of gangsters; the old boy, bald, fat and twisted like a psychotic Buddha, Duke Doyle with his wispy, thinning hair still teased up, Teddy-boy style, his blackened teeth and the big rings on his finger. Giving Henry a slow, shark-like nod as he passed. Aye, Henry considered, the best place for that crowd was out here; the scheme’s loss was the toon’s gain. The reverence the other drinkers had for the men at that table hung heavily in the air, with more money changing hands for a casual game of dominoes than most of them made at the local building sites and factories in a month. This had been the pub Henry had used since they’d moved out here. Not the nearest, but his preference. You got a decent pint of Tartan Special. But this would be his last visit for a long time. He’d never really liked it out here, he thought, as he headed out the door; stuck in the middle of nowhere, but no, he wouldn’t be coming back.

Back outside, Nessie Girvan was recalling the images of Biafran famine on the telly last night. They wee souls, it would break your heart. And there was that rubbish, and there were loads like him. She couldn’t understand why some people had kids. — That bloody animal, she said to her Davie.

Davie was wishing he’d reacted quicker, had followed the bastard into the pub. The man had been a real rogue mind you; olive-skinned, with hard, shifty eyes. Davie had taken on a lot harder before, but it was all some time ago. — If our Phil or Alfie had been there, he wouldnae have been so bloody smart, Davie said. — When ah see rubbish like that ah wish ah wis younger maself. For five minutes, that’s aw it wid take . . . christ . . .

Davie Girvan stopped in his tracks, unable to believe his eyes. The wee kids had got through a hole in the wire fence and were scrambling down the bank towards the river. It was shallow at this stretch, but it had a sloping gradient and the odd treacherous pocket of depth.

— MISSUS! he shouted at the woman on the seat, pointing frantically at the space in the wire meshing, — MIND YIR BAIRNS, BI CHRIST!

Her bairns

In blind terror Alice looked at the space to her side, saw the gap in the fence and ran towards it. She saw them standing halfway down the
steep bank. — Yvonne! C’mere, she pleaded with as much composure as she could.

Yvonne looked up and giggled. — Nup! she shouted.

Terry had a stick. He was lashing at the long grass on the bank, chopping it down.

Alice implored, — You’re missin aw the sweeties n juice. Thir’s ice cream here!

A light of recognition filled the children’s eyes. They scrambled eagerly up the bank and through the fence towards her. Alice wanted to batter them, she wanted to thrash them

she wanted to thrash him

Alice Lawson exploded in a sob and hugged her children in a crushing grip, anxiously kneading at their clothes and hair.

— Whaire’s the ice-cream but, Ma, Terry asked.

— Wir jist gaunny git it, son, Alice gasped, — wir jist gaunny git it.

Davie and Nessie Girvan watched the broken woman stagger away with her children, each one gripped firmly by the hand, as jerky and full of life as she was soundly crushed.

The particles of filed metal hung in the air, as thick as dust. Duncan Ewart could feel them in his lungs and nostrils. You got used to the smell though; it was only when it had competition that you became aware of it. Now it was duelling with the more welcome scent of sponge and custard which wafted through the machine shop from the canteen. Every time the swing doors of the kitchen flew open Duncan was reminded that lunch was closer and that the weekend was approaching.

He worked the lathe deftly, cheating a bit by lifting the guard slightly, to get a better edge on the metal he was turning. It was perverse, he thought, but in his role as shop steward he’d bawl out anybody who tried to cut corners by flouting the safety regulations in this way. Risk losing some fingers for a bonus for a bunch of rich shareholders living in Surrey or somewhere? Fuck that, he was mad. But it was the job, the process of actually doing it. It was your own world and you lived almost exclusively in it from nine till five-thirty. You strived to make it better, in every way.

A blur pulled into focus from the edge of his sight-line as Tony Radden walked past, goggles and gloves off. Duncan glanced at his new space-age watch. 12.47. What the fuck was that? Nearly ten-to. Almost lunch hour. Duncan considered again the dilemma he faced, it was one he’d encountered many Friday mornings.

The new single from Elvis,
The Wonder of You
, was out today. It had been constantly previewed this week on Radio One. Aye, the King was back bigtime.
In the Ghetto
and
Suspicious Minds
were better, but they’d both peaked at number two. This one was more commercial, a sing-along ballad, and Duncan fancied it to go to the top spot. In his head he could hear people drunkenly singing along with it, see them slow-dancing
to it. If you could make the people sing and dance, you were on a winner. Dinner hour was sixty poxy minutes, and the Number One bus to Leith and Ards record shop took fifteen minutes there and the same back. Sufficient time to buy the record and get a filled roll and a cup of tea from the Canasta. It had been a straight choice between purchase of the single or the leisurely enjoyment of a pie and pint up at Speirs’s Bar, the nearest pub to the factory. But now the teasing canteen smells announced that it was Friday, and the big nosh was coming into the picture. They always made a special effort on a Friday, because you were more inclined to go to the pub at dinner time then, which made high productivity and the final afternoon of the week uneasy bedfellows.

Duncan clicked the machine off. Elvis Aaron Presley. The King. No contest. The record it would be. Looking at his watch again, he elected to head straight out in his overalls, impatiently punching the clock and sprinting to catch the bus outside the factory gates. Duncan had negotiated with the management to provide lockers, so that workers could travel in ‘civvies’ and change into their working gear. In practice, few, including himself, bothered, except if they were heading straight out into town on Friday after work. Settling down upstairs at the back and recovering his puff, Duncan lit up a Regal, thinking that if he got a copy of
The Wonder of You
he’d play it tonight up the Tartan Club with Maria. The purr from the engine of the vehicle seemed to echo his own contentment as he basked in the warm fug.

Aye, it was shaping up to be a good weekend. Killie were over at Dunfermline the morn and Tommy McLean was fit again. The Wee Man would provide the crosses that Eddie Morrison and this new boy Mathie thrived on. Mathie and that other young guy, McSherry they called him, they both looked promising players, Duncan had always liked going to Dunfermline, considering them a sort of east-coast version of Kilmarnock; both teams from small towns in mining areas who’d achieved real glory in the last ten years and had battled with some of Europe’s finest.