The Walk Home (14 page)

Graham liked his uncle when he was like that. But you never knew how long it would last, and he didn’t want Stevie to see Eric’s other side.

Lindsey didn’t know the old man like he did, but she wouldn’t hear a word said against him, and she was so much better with words than Graham. If he mentioned his worries, she could talk him round. Or make him feel like he was being unkind, like those folk years ago on the buses.

Stevie always looked happy enough, when Graham went to pick him up; lying on the floor with his Lego, or looking at one of Eric’s pictures.

“Can we no stay a bit, Da?”

“Naw, son. Your Maw will have the tea on by now.”

Eric never offered him tea, he just got Stevie’s coat. Mostly it was Lindsey who did the fetching, and Graham knew he was second best for Eric, because his uncle would look past him down the close some evenings when he opened the door, like he was hoping to see her coming up the stair.

If Lindsey picked Stevie up they’d always be late back. Graham knew she talked with Eric about his drawings, because he’d seen them do it, the few times they’d been there together. Lindsey walked along the walls where Eric pinned his new pictures; still the usual, Glasgow and folk from the Bible, but Papa Robert had joined them too now, mostly with his roses. They stretched as far as the hallway these days, so it could take Lindsey forever to get past them, holding the cup of tea Eric had made for her, pointing and asking questions. The old guy would be all chatty next to her, dead happy at having someone who paid such close attention. Easy, like he’d always been at John Joe’s.

Except Graham couldn’t feel easy watching that. Listening to Eric and Lindsey talk. It seemed like she talked so much more with Eric than she did with him, it set off a lurching feeling, deep in the pit of his guts, every time. Like he might be second best for Lindsey as well.

The more she heard about Eric, the more Lindsey wanted, and Graham couldn’t tell her nearly enough about his uncle, or the big row with Papa Robert. He tried, even if it was all before his time, and it didn’t come easy either, dredging through all he’d been told. Graham hauled out the main events from ages back, all that family sadness; the argued-over wedding, Franny’s death, Eric’s breakdown, but Lindsey wasn’t satisfied.

“So then what?”

“That’s it. I’ve just tellt you.”

Had he not just said?

It felt like he must be lacking words again, because Lindsey turned to Brenda instead; she took his Mum aside most times they went round there. They’d stand in the kitchen, all caught up in the past, shaking their heads, all sad, and no one could shift them from the subject.

Graham kept to the living room with his Dad, who tried to see the funny side, but it got to him as well. Malky asked Graham:

“Have you seen the pair ae them in the next room? Wringin their hands again.”

Rubbing at the sore spots on the family conscience. He saw no use in it:

“Cannae be daen wae sackcloth and ashes.”

Lindsey said it wasn’t like that. She told Graham:

“It’s your family. I’m just interested.”

And she made him feel like he wasn’t.

Lindsey reckoned it was Papa Robert who had need to atone.

“I could never do that. Cut out my own child.”

She said things like that all the time, out of the blue; when they were lying at home on the sofa, or just out and driving somewhere.

“How can Eric draw him? After all that.”

Lindsey was always thinking about it. So she had Graham thinking about it too, remembering stuff he hadn’t thought about in years, and none of it too cheerful; he didn’t like to think about Eric in tears, or his Mum at her wit’s end.

Lindsey reckoned Papa Robert should have made it up with Eric, after he came out of hospital:

“You’d have thought he’d have tried then. He could have made the first move. He knew what it was like, did he not? Losing a wife.”

Graham’s Mum had said the same thing, especially as Papa Robert got older: it had made no sense to her, the pair of them lonely widowers.
If they could just get over theirsels
.

On days she was working, she used to get Graham to check in on his Grandad after school. All his brothers were meant to take turns, except he was the only one who pitched up with any regularity, so he often had to bear Papa Robert’s grousing at being alone in his old days, and neglected, as well as the sheer bastard inconvenience of going up to his flat in the first place.

Graham remembered: how his Mum had told him to bear
with it.
Your Grandad’s on his own too much, just let him moan a bit
. Only it seemed like Papa Robert did nothing but, he was hard bloody work. It was another thing Graham didn’t like to think about.

He was forever doing something wrong in the old man’s eyes. Coming late, or with his uniform untucked.

“Ach look at you. Look who I’m lumbered wae. They no teach you anythin at that school ae yours?”

None of Graham’s brothers had done well in their exams, and it felt like Papa Robert held it against him, almost every visit.

“How was it only Eric could manage a decent schoolin?”

Graham dreaded hearing that, and not just because it meant he’d been found wanting; Papa Robert was always much the worse for being minded of Eric. Graham would be all fingers and thumbs in the kitchen, fearing the worst, making tea and toast, while his Grandad kept a critical eye.

“Ham-fisted boy!”

Papa Robert shouted that at him from the doorway one time, when Graham chipped the lid of the teapot, by accident, putting it on too hurriedly, in too much of a rush to get off up the road. His Grandad snatched the pot from him, fierce, and then Graham stood and stared at the old man’s fists, clenched around the handle and spout; they were solid and pink, and they looked just like meat boiled in brine.
Aye well, Papa. You can talk
. The words were there and ready in Graham’s mouth, but they wouldn’t come out: they were too hurtful, and he was too much of a coward. So Graham stood in front of his Grandad, mute and full of fury. Battling the urge to fling his own ham fists about.

There was nothing he could do, so he did the washing up,
Papa Robert’s breakfast plate and cup, to keep his hands from damage, and his grandfather stood there and watched him for a couple of over-long minutes.

The old man drank a slurp of his tea—two, three—and then, milder again, he said:

“You havenae the measure ae your ain strength yet. But you’ll get that, Graham, given time.”

Papa Robert looked at him, like he was sure of him, watching the calm return to him. Then he asked:

“You’ll forgive an old man his grief?”

And Graham nodded, because he did.

He thought about that some evenings now, driving Stevie home from Eric’s. How what his Grandad said bore weight; not just the bad things, but the good as well. If Papa Robert took your part, he could make you feel right, and Eric could have done with some of that back-up when he came out of hospital. So maybe Lindsey had a point.

Only Papa Robert had told him he’d get to know his strength, and Graham still didn’t feel like he knew it. And there was that part about grief too. Nana Margaret had been dead ages, and so Graham couldn’t decide, if it was her Papa Robert was sad about, or if it was Eric.

He knew his Grandad was sorry for what he’d said to him that day.

Maybe he was sorry for much more besides.

But Graham reckoned if he tried saying that to Lindsey, she’d need to hear the proof. Or she’d ask him why it was, then, that Papa Robert never made the first move. So he didn’t tell her that
story. It had him too rattled anyhow, feeling too weak and word-poor, and he didn’t know that he could tell it right.

Lindsey was taking Stevie’s cot apart one evening when they got in. She said it wasn’t being used, save to house Stevie’s toys.

“It’s too cramped in his room to play, so I’ve found a box for his things now.”

She was making a neat job of fitting the cot sides into the back of the hallway cupboard, with the bolts and bits in a plastic bag, taped to one of the legs.

“Ready for the next wan,” Graham said.

And Lindsey smiled.

“Soon as we get a better place.”

She gave Graham a kiss, but he still got that same lurching feeling, like he was second best again. Just like these walls he’d plastered and painted, this home he’d made for them. If Lindsey wasn’t talking about Eric and Papa Robert these days, then she was on about moving, so Graham said:

“Aye, I know.” Watching her shut the door on the cot. “Soon as we’ve a better place tae go.”

Ewa called Jozef. In the middle of the third week. It was such a long time since she’d done that, he didn’t know what to say at first, when she asked him how he was; he was just thrown by that familiar-unfamiliar voice.

“Jozef?”

“I’m all right. I’m fine.”

He’d be better with her here. But he couldn’t say that in case he was overheard. Stevie was behind him, painting the stairwell, and even though the boy couldn’t understand Polish, Jozef still put down his roller and headed for the first floor before he spoke more. Hot from working, looking for a room with the windows open, Jozef decided it might be better not to say that at all: Ewa knew that’s what he thought, he’d told her often enough. Until she’d asked him to stop.
I have to make up my own mind
.

Ewa told him now:

“I just wanted to check anyway. I’ve been hearing things to make me worry.”

So then Jozef slowed a moment on the stairs, unnerved; it must have got back to her, about the tiles and the towel rails.

“Oh, right.”

He picked up his pace again, heading for the front door and fresh air, thinking she’d maybe heard from Tomas. But then she could have heard from any number of his workers; he and Ewa had so many people in common, between here and Gdańsk, they’d known each other for such a long time, since well before they were married. His father and her uncle were both in the shipyard, and in prison together over the strikes, and Ewa went to school with Jozef’s youngest sister too, so then he was suspicious:

“Was it Adela who told you?”

But how would Adela know? Jozef had said nothing to anyone at home. His sisters all knew about the last job, that disaster, but he’d been careful not to tell them about this one. He stepped onto the pavement, but outside it was worse: he had the sun on him now, full in the face.

“It doesn’t matter how I heard,” Ewa told him. “I just want to know if you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

He sounded defensive, Jozef knew that; found out, sweat prickling against his scalp. He shielded his eyes, and then Ewa fell quiet, just as she’d done in so many of their phone calls since she left.

“Anyway.” She took a breath. “This boy you have working for you.”

“Stevie?”

Jozef threw a checking look behind him, up at the open first-floor windows; the boy had them wide as always.

“The Scottish one, yes. What do you know about him?”

Jozef felt himself frowning: it sounded so much like a Tomas question, he thought she must have been talking to him. He took a pace or two away from the building, telling her:

“He’s one of Romek’s.”

“I know. And he’s been taught well. Everything by Poles.”

How did Ewa know all this? Jozef waited, guarded, unsure what she was getting at. That he was a soft touch, maybe, and Romek wasn’t. She said:

“I heard you put him with Marek. And so they’re friends now.”

“They work together.” Jozef corrected her, sharp. “I’ve got all my men working hard.”

“Right. Right.”

Ewa sighed. He was making it difficult for her, so then she got to the point:

“You’ll watch out, won’t you? For Marek.”

She put the stress on her nephew’s name. As if she thought Jozef would put the other boy before him.

“And you’ll watch out for yourself, too. Okay?”

Lindsey came up trumps. She found them a housing association place. It was in Whiteinch, which she knew wasn’t bad: she’d been through there on the bus before, and it was along by the Clyde, halfway between Drumchapel and town.