My Temporary Life (12 page)

He holds his little hand out for me to shake, and I take it and squeeze back. I have an overwhelming urge to tell him to stay off the booze, but I don’t. I just let him walk back to his door, and watch as it opens, and then closes solidly behind him.

CHAPTER 13

I remember hearing a man speaking on one of my Dad’s radio programs about the pulse of the city. I can’t remember the city that he was referring to, but I do remember his words. He said that different cities have different pulses, different energies coming from them. He spoke about how the city’s pulse resonates through its inhabitants. I remember those words clearly. The pulse of the city
resonates through its inhabitants.
I only really know two cities; Kilmarnock and Vancouver, and if the man on the radio was right, then they both have very, different pulses.

Kilmarnock’s pulse has a slow steady rhythm to it. It never gets too excited. It just remains as it is. You break your neighbours’ windows or steal their milk bottles and the pulse barely changes. The information just seems to get stored away for another day, and everything just keeps beating along. As my Dad and I ride the bus to the airport, I can feel Kilmarnock’s steady pulse coming from all the familiar buildings as they pass us by. I can feel it when he’s waiting with me, his hand on my shoulder, giving me advice on everything from the types of food to eat to how to dress for the Canadian winter. At some point between staring at the overhead monitors and waiting for the call to board, he slips his watch into my hand and squeezes it shut. “For your running, Malcolm, it’ll keep your timing honest. It’ll show you just how fast you can go, and, how far, son; it’ll show you how far you’re able to go.”

I hold onto the watch for as long as I can, not wanting to look at it, just enjoying the feeling of having it in my hands. It’s long into the flight before I slip it in my pocket and close my eyes.

Vancouver’s pulse is more erratic. It has more extreme highs and lows. I feel it as soon as I land at the airport and George is slapping me on the shoulders, telling me how much taller I’ve become. By the time we reach his house, and he’s thrown my suitcases onto the bed in the spare room, I’ve heard everything that’s happened in the past six months. Rose, his sister, has moved in and taken up residence in the other bedroom. She’s a great cook and makes the best fried cabbage that I’ll ever taste. Since I’ve never tasted fried cabbage, I’m sure that he’s right. He’s taken his job back at the car lot, and although it took some time, Marvin has finally been dismissed.

I never asked for any special treatment, Mal, but Bill Allister one day just came in the shop, and told me. He said, “He’s gone, he’s gone and the
incident
will not be talked about again.” And, it hasn’t. Nobody’s mentioned it and nobody’s even mentioned Marvin.

I think about my mother and all the trouble that she caused, all the people that she hurt. I don’t want to ask George about her, but he knows, he just knows.

“
They’re still together from what I hear, Mal. She’s living in his house, and she knows that you’re here. She’s been told that you’re moving here.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I’m sure you’ll see her. I’m sure she’ll contact you at some point, Mal.”

I jog in the streets around George’s house. In Scotland we call it running but here in Canada it’s jogging
.
It’s just a word; it certainly doesn’t make my legs feel any different. I time myself on my Dad’s watch. The second hand ticks precisely, never missing a beat, never slowing down. I increase my speed, trying to find the exact rate that will help me to clear my head. I know that if I can get to the point where my legs work naturally, instinctively, then all the pictures in my head will go away. The watch is a heavy old timepiece that is just a little too large for my wrist but I like the feel of it. I like the way it’s supposed to keep me honest.

George is right; Rose looks after both of us and is an incredible cook. It seems as though she grabs me and squeezes me against her chest every time I walk into a room. Where George is built like a big barrel, Rose is more top heavy and curvy. She’s a tall woman with dark hair that is just starting to grey and is always pinned in a bun on top of her head. She swings her wide hips around the kitchen and sings in a strange rhythm that only she seems to understand while filling jars with jams and vegetables that I’m sure could feed us for years to come.

“
It’s canning, Malcolm. Don’t they do no canning in Scotland?” She has this delightful habit of waiting only a second for your answer, and when it doesn’t come, just keeps on talking. “Well let me tell you something, Mr. Malcolm, we’re gonna have enough food in that pantry that nobody in this house will ever go hungry. I guarantee you that.” She laughs at the end of most pronouncements, and it’s the same warm, hearty laugh that her brother has. I give up trying to avoid her hugs after a while and just let her latch on and hold me. It’s all part of the same pulse of the city, the same excitable energy that comes from being in Vancouver.

I won’t begin my new school for a week so I run to it during the days, timing myself so that the kids are just at the end of their break and heading back to classes. I see them as they nudge each other and playfully call out on their way back to the building. The expressions on the faces are the same as the kids at my Scottish school, but these kids are fatter, healthier, and their clothes are cleaner and newer. George tells me that their dungarees, as we call them in Kilmarnock, are called blue jeans and some of them even wear designer blue jeans. My Dad calls every day and when I tell him that dungarees with little flags on the back of them are called designer blue jeans, there’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. It’s very, very difficult not to laugh as I imagine his reactions.

“
Designer blue jeans? What exactly is a designer blue jean when it’s at home?” The words that sounded so Canadian when George said them are different now when said with my Dad’s strong Scottish brogue.

“
I don’t know, Dad. I’ll find out at school I suppose. Some of them have little French flags on the back of them, tiny little French flags.”

There’s no silence this time. His response is immediate. “A French flag on their arse? Why the hell would you have a French flag on your arse and go to a Canadian school?” I’m holding the phone away from my face now because I have to laugh, and I’m not laughing at my Dad. I love my Dad. I’m laughing at the differences. I’m laughing at the differences between dungarees and blue jeans with little French flags on them. “Malcolm, I want you to watch this. I want you to watch for any of this type of thing and report back to me.” He’s shaking his head now, I can tell. I know he is. “You let me know, son. You keep your eyes open for any of this type of carrying on.”

He’s only half serious, I’m sure, but he is intrigued by it and there’s nothing or nobody in the streets of Kilmarnock that will be able to explain it to him. Whether he means for me to keep my eyes on the arses of the kids who wear these jeans, or just to watch out for anything French in general, I’m not sure, but I will report back on the differences. I know that he’s amused by the differences. I think that our call is over when he asks me to hold on and I hear the phone being handed to someone else.

“
Well, are you getting along all right in Canada then, Malcolm? Are you still running, then?” His voice is different, but I know that it’s Hardly. He just doesn’t sound like the boy who shuffled his feet and hid his face as we walked to school together. He sounds stronger, more confident somehow.

“
I am, mate. I’m running every day, even in the rain. I start school on Monday, brand new school.”

“
Watch out for trees, Malcolm. Don’t walk under any trees ower there, mind ye.” He’s laughing as he says it. Hardly is laughing, not giggling in the drunken fashion, but laughing like a man, laughing like a grown up.

“
You’re funny, Hardly, very funny. What are you doing there anyways? Are you visiting my Dad?”

“
I’m staying here, Malcolm. I’ve moved in. I’m staying with your Dad until I’m old enough to enlist. I’m back at school and putting in my time till then.” He’s not laughing now, but he sounds okay. He sounds good, relieved even.

I wish it was me, back in Kilmarnock living with my Dad, or living with my Dad and Hardly. It makes sense for Hardly of course, and it even makes sense for my Dad. I don’t ask what happened, and I don’t really want to know. I just accept the fact that this is the way that it has to be, for now, and smile and grip the phone as tightly as I can, trying to be happy for both of them.

“
That’s good, mate. That’s really good. Ask him to show you how to punch the bags of wet leaves. That’ll get you in shape for the army. That’ll set you right.”

“
Aye, Malcolm, I will. We’ll start punching bags of wet leaves today. We’ll get on it as soon as I hang up the phone. I promise you.” He’s mocking me now but I don’t care. I’m glad that he’s away from his parents. I’m glad that he’s safe. My Dad and Hardly, living together, and me in Canada thousands of miles away, temporarily, only temporarily.

CHAPTER 14

I can hear their voices even though it feels as though I’m still dreaming. I sleep so soundly at night in the spare bedroom in Georges’ house. I suppose it’s a combination of the remnants of jet lag, and the fact that I run so much every day.

George is talking to Rose and even though he’s trying to be quiet his voice is excited, maybe even angry. “She’s got nobody else, Rosie. She called. I’m going. It’s as simple as that. I’ll bring her back here if I have to.”

“
I just don’t know why you have to get involved. It isn’t our business.”

I climb out of bed and I’m standing at the doorway, watching as George is pulling on his jacket and Rose is talking to him with her hands on her hips.

“
We are involved, Rose. We’re all involved.” He’s noticed me now and is motioning towards me when he says it and of course I know exactly who they’re talking about.

“
It’s my mother isn’t it? Something’s happened?” I know. It’s my mother. It has to be.

Rose takes her hands from her hips and comes over to rub my shoulder and stroke the back of my head but it’s George who answers me. “She called, Malcolm. She needs a bit of help. I’m going to go and see what’s going on.” He waits before adding, “It’ll be fine. It’ll be okay.” There’s very little conviction in his voice as he says it. I don’t know what has happened but something’s different. Something’s different in the way he’s talking and he’s never, ever called me Malcolm before.

“
I’m coming, George. It’s my mum. I’m coming.”

He pauses for only a moment and starts to speak, but I’m back in my room grabbing my dad’s watch and pulling on some clothes, before he can say no.

“
Are you sure you want him to go, Georgie? Are you sure that he should?” Rose is turning to her brother, and for once she seems to be waiting for an answer, instead of just talking over him.

He’s standing at the front door as though he’s hesitating or convincing himself. The poor man doesn’t know what to say, so I just squeeze past them and stand out on the front porch, waiting. It’s cold and dark and I hold onto my dad’s watch with my hands in my pockets. I pull out the watch and it says 2:15 am. I never knew that it was this quiet at 2:15 am but it is. The only noise that I can hear is the buzzing of the streetlights that are lit up all along the side of the street. It’s a calm, dark night and there’s a little bit of wind blowing and the top of the lights gently sway as the wind hits them.

I don’t know where we’re going or exactly what’s happened, but I know by the look on George’s face that it’s not good. I’m sitting between the two of them, in the front seat of George’s big car. I want to know more, but they’re not talking, so I just stare forward at the darkness, while stealing the odd glance at how tightly George is gripping the steering wheel.

I’m not familiar with any of the streets that we pass and in the darkness it’s hard to make out exactly where we are so I just rub the sleep from my eyes, and think about how warm my bed felt just a few minutes earlier. Finally, I can’t take it any longer, and I have to ask.

“
What is it that happened, George? Where are we going?”

“
We’re going to sort something out, Malcolm. We got a call for help, and we’re going to go sort something out. That’s all, son, that’s all.”

His answer doesn’t make sense to me. It doesn’t make sense that he looks angry, and that Rose keeps holding my hands in hers, telling me that everything is going to be alright. And, it doesn’t make sense that he called me Malcolm, and not Mal. He’s never done that before. Nothing makes sense, right up until we pull up to an old house, and I see my mother sitting out on the front steps, doubled over, holding herself.