The Burn (15 page)

So. He shrugged.

Tch! She shook her head and inhaled, blew the smoke at the ceiling.

Ye dont like me speaking like that . . . ?

I dont care if ye speak like that or no, but he’s more than just what you’re calling him, a set of responses and reactions – as if he was a machine. Babies areni machines.

Ye could’ve fooled me!

Seriously dad.

He chuckled. You’re too sensitive.

She glanced at her watch.

Ye are.

Oh well, it must run in the family.

He grinned.

I dont mean you, you’re like a bear in a china shop! She rose from the seat and walked to the window, taking the ashtray with her.

He watched her as she stood gazing down the two storeys to the street. After a pause he said, Ye know something, you were a smelly wean when you were wee, ye wereni potty-trained till ye were
going on five years of age! I’m no kidding ye, it was the talk of the street.

Thanks dad . . . She tapped ash into the ashtray.

The Green Lady thought ye had congenital diarrhoea!

Dont be disgusting.

Her father laughed. So dont get on your high horse, that’s all I’m saying.

Isobel shook her head.

Several moments passed. Then he said, It’s actually just your mother I’m thinking of.

Dad . . .

Naw but I am.

I just dont want to be a hypocrite, she said, turning to face him.

But ye wouldni be being a hypocrite ye would just be being a mother, and a daughter. Isobel I mean look hen dont get me wrong on this, I couldni care one way or the other – even although I
says that about the basic notion of the thing, I dont really care, no really. He shifted on his seat, shaking his head: And as far as the church goes . . . ye know me better than that, when it
comes to the church and hypocrites, it’s just like Rabbie Burns said it was. He paused, gazing at her. It’s your mother I’m thinking about.

Isobel sighed.

It is, it’s no me.

Dad, I just wish you wouldni go on about it.

Ho – I didni know that’s what I was doing!

We’ve done enough talking on the subject.

He nodded, studying the label on the beer can. He said: It’s just with you being on your own now, I mean, it was his idea – about no getting the wean baptised – in the first
place; when it was born I’m talking about, it was his idea, no yours.

Dad, it doesni matter whose idea it was, mine or his; it doesni matter. I’m just no getting it baptised and that’s that.

Fair enough, it just strikes me as a wee bit selfish.

She stubbed out the cigarette.

I dont mean selfish . . .

She stared at him for a moment, then leant her elbows on the window-sill and gave her attention to the street below.

Eventually he called: By the way hen, did I tell ye, they’re trying to get me to stand for re-election again. I telt them naw but they’ll no listen.

Oh well you’ve just got to insist.

I know. I’m gonni. Cause I just dont have time. Me and your mother are supposed to be doing up the house at the end of April. She’s wanting the front room wallpapered and she’s
talking about getting new points put in as well! So I mean we’ll be upside down here, I’ll no have time for anything hardly.

When is it?

What?

The election.

Five weeks.

You’ll just have to tell them then wont ye.

I’m going to. I mean God love us it’s high time some of these young yins got into the act. They need a good bloody shake-up. See when I was that age! I mean ye had to go
cloak-and-dagger ye know, even just to pay your dues. If the management found out you were in the union you would’ve been out the bloody door, pronto. No negotiating table then ye know.
They’d have bloody shot us if they could’ve got away with it!

Isobel made no answer. She was still peering out the window.

Honest hen they would’ve. That’s what like they were. I’m talking about back when I started out in the job, when some of us were trying to get things organised. He continued
gazing at her; he raised the can of export to his mouth and after a pause he drank from it. He dried his lips on the cuff of his shirt-sleeve, and frowned at her: You listening?

Yeh.

Ye sure? He smiled.

Och dad I was just away thinking.

He nodded.

Och . . . I was just remembering Saturday mornings. I used to hate them. She smiled.

You used to hate them?

Isobel turned to him. Because I always used to think something bad had happened to mum, an accident, I could never stop myself thinking about it and it was awful because I would think too that
just me thinking about it might make it happen. Tempting fate, ye know. And she was going to get taken into hospital. On her way back from town with the messages, her with all these enormous
shopping bags. I was always expecting to hear the siren and then the ambulance would come hurtling round the corner, bringing her in it . . . Isobel looked at him and smiled. I mean when I was wee
dad.

Oh aye.

That corner of the street along there, when you stare and stare and stare, if you’re waiting for somebody . . .

Isobel turned away from her father. He could only see the back of her head. He glanced at the baby who had managed to get the ornamental brass poker from where it was kept by the side of the
tiled fireplace. He stared down at him for a few moments, then shrugged, When you’re wee . . .

Isobel said: I used to watch out for you as well. Especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays when you were working late.

I mind that . . . aye.

She stared out the window.

Listen hen dont get me wrong, I worry like hell about your mother as well but I know she’ll be here sooner or later I mean tempting fate like ye says, I think you’re better just
showing a wee bit of patience, a wee bit of patience. He gestured with the beer can: Come away from the window.

She turned her head sharply, but did as she was told. She got her handbag from where she had left it beneath the coffee table and she snapped it open, took out her cigarettes.

Her father sniffed. Ye angry?

No dad, I’m no angry; I just wish you would remember I’m an adult sometimes.

He nodded. Sorry.

Putting the cigarette packet down on the table she quickly took the poker from the boy’s hands, she lifted him upwards, chuckling, her eyes closed, gently rubbing her forehead in his face;
and she sat down on the couch, sitting him on her lap. Her gaze went to the table and the cigarette packet.

Want your fags? he said.

No.

Ye sure?

Yeh.

Ye still angry?

No.

Good.

She sighed. I’m just a bit worried.

There’s no need to be. There isni. You know your mother, she’ll have met somebody. She’ll be gabbing away. She’ll have forgot the time. Ye know the way she goes hen I
mean sometimes I’m feart to let her out the house in case she canni find her way home again! He chuckled, then he groaned. That’s me making it worse eh!

She looked at him. His forehead had creased as if he was anticipating a smile from her; she smiled.

The big house was standing empty for years before she came back. She came from America. But according to the newspaperman she had owned the house long long before. The big
house stood at the end of the street, less than a hundred yards from the river. There was not much the people in the street could tell him. The old woman never spoke to them at all. She had always
lived alone surrounded by cats and dogs.
Sarah Crosbie.
It turned out that the house had been there about two hundred years. This bit of the river had been a ford at one time. The
foundations were much older than the rest of the building. Somebody called Rankine had rebuilt it and the date 1733 was discovered above a side door at the back. This Rankine was famous. The
newspaperman was looking for people called Rankine to see if they were related. He thought the old woman might have been a descendant. But nobody knew. People kept away from the big house. If a
neighbour or somebody ever had to go to her door she always kept them waiting on the front step. When the McDonnell Murders were going on back in the ’20s a group of locals barged their way
inside the big house door. They found a body behind a bricked-up chimney-piece down in the basement. A man’s body, dead for many years. Nobody knew a thing about it and neither did the old
woman. She had not been in the place long at the time. The police thought he might have died from natural causes and judging by the tatters of clothes he could have been a building worker or
something.

When she went into hospital the newspaperman tried to gain entrance to the big house but he was refused on certain grounds. Workmen arrived the next day and they barred the place up.

It was eighteen months ago she turned up at the police office. She was in a bad state. She told them people were in her house, they had done things to her. But she would not say what things.
Policemen returned to the big house with her but saw nothing suspicious. Next day a health-visitor called on her and she was admitted later on to the geriatric ward at Gartnavel Royal. A few women
from the street took a bunch of flowers up to her but she just stared at the ceiling for the whole visiting hour. And it was after this the newspaperman began coming around. He goes to see her in
hospital as well once or twice.

Then there’s that other case. I’m talking about the hopeless one we can all get into at some stage or another. Usually it’s with a pal we’ve had for
years, when he’s pissed drunk and you’re no; and you notice everybody’s all staring, they’re staring at the two of yous. It’s when that happens the bother starts and
things get quite interesting. You get the boost. It’s exciting, it’s the excitement, the heart starting to go and it affecting the whole body; you feel the shoulders going and if
you’re a smoker you’re taking the wee quick puffs on the fag, sometimes no even blowing out the smoke, just taking the next yins rapid, keeping it buried deep down, letting it out in
dribs and drabs, a wee tait at a time. It’s because you’re trying to occupy yourself. You’re no wanting to seem too involved otherwise it all starts too quick; you want to calm
things down, because you know what like you are. That’s how as well that you can try and kid on you’re no aware of what’s happening. When it’s a betting shop you’re in
you act as if you’re totally engrossed in the form for the next race. If it’s a pub you stare up at the telly. The broo, well ye just stare maybe at the clock or something. But all the
time you’re keeping that one eye peeled, watching your pal, if he’s making a cunt of himself and getting folk upset. Bastards. You’re just waiting, trying no to notice, trying to
concentrate on other things. Fucking useless but you know it’s going to happen; there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes the waiting doesni even last that long. You’re so
wound up ready to go you just burst out and fucking dig up some poor cunt who’s probably no even been involved in the fucking first place! And you’re at him ranting and raving:

You ya fucking snidey bastard ye what’s the fucking game at all?

And he’s all fucking taken aback: What d’you mean, he says.

Dont fucking give us it, you says.

But I’m no doing fuck all.

Ya lying bastard ye you’re fucking on at my mate there you’re fucking out of order.

What? he says.

And you start shouting: If ye fucking used your fucking eyes you’d see he was drunk ya bastard!

What! What d’you mean!! I’m just standing here having a pint minding my own business.

Minding your own business fuck all, you shout at him. And the poor cunt now can hardly speak a word cause he’s bloody feart, he doesni know what you’re going to do, if you’re
going to fucking batter him. And he looks about the boozer for support, for somebody that knows him to defend him maybe. But nobody does. They dont actually know what happened. They never saw fuck
all and dont really want to get involved. They’re no really that interested anyhow, when it comes down to it, especially if it’s the betting shop it’s happening in because
they’re just waiting for the
going behind
call so’s they can rush over and make their bets. In fact they’re probably just watching what’s happening to pass the time.
There again but some of them will be interested, they maybe know the bloke you’re digging up. They might even be the guy’s mucker for all you know! But you’re no caring. You dont
actually give a fuck. It could even make things better. What also happens with me at a certain point is how I suddenly step out my skin and I can look down at myself standing there. Only for a
split second though, then I’m back inside again and so fucking wound up I dont notice a single thing, nothing. I wouldnt even notice myself, if I was standing there and I actually was two
people. One time I turned round and gubbed a polis right on the mouth. I didnt even fucking notice he was there. He tapped me on the shoulder and I just turned round and fucking belted him one,
right on the fucking kisser man and he dropped, out like a light, so I just gets off my mark immediately, out the door and away like the clappers, and poor auld Fergie – that was my mate
– he wound up getting huckled; and what a beating he got off the polis once they got him into the station! Poor bastard. But that’s where I’m at, that kind of thing, the way it
seems to happen to me. It never used to. Or did it? Maybe it did and I just didni notice because I was young and foolish and a headstrong bastard whereas now I’m auld and grey.

Auld Shug gits oot iv bed. Turns aff the alarm cloak. Gis straight ben the toilit. Sits doon in that oan the lavatri pan. Wee bit iv time gis by. Shug sittin ther, yonin. This
Hon. Up it comes oot fri the waste pipe. Stretchis right up. Grabs him by the bolls.

Jesis christ shouts the Shug filla.

The Hon gis slack in a coupla minits. Up jumps Shug. Straight ben the kitchin hodin onti the pyjama troosirs in that jist aboot collapsin inti his cher.

Never know the minit he was sayin. Eh. Jesis christ.