Waterline Page 7

  What is it that retired folk do with theyselves? All that time they have. Feeding the sparrows, the tellybox on, the park, wee familiar walks down the water, stopping and sitting to chat about this and that. All the patter you can have about characters from the past and how things were before the yards were closed, and what do ye think the now of these high and mighty new flats going up across the way there? The Iron Ladies, as ye used to call them.

  There it all is still in the living room. The jumble sale on the settee and the photos still scattered over the floor. It seems even more ridiculous the now than it did before, but he leaves everything where it is and goes to sit in the armchair and finish his tea. He scans out over the photographs, and notices that a couple of them are gone partly under the settee. He gets up and pulls them out. Black and whites, good ones, he’d no paid them much attention earlier. One of them doesn’t have Cathy in, he’s put it out by mistake: it’s himself just, he looks about nine or ten, so it can’t be long after his da died, and he’s stood in the back court outside him and his maw’s tenement, grinning for the camera.

  The other one is even better. He can mind it exactly. Twentieth of September, 1967. Launch day of the QE2. You don’t forget a day like that. He picks up the photo and takes it over to the armchair. Even though it’s faded you can still see what a sunny day it was, the yard mobbed with a great crowd, more than 30,000 there. Cathy had fussed on that much when he’d gone to pick her up, getting her clothes right and her flask and her oatcakes ready, that by the time they arrived the yard was that busy it took over half an hour for them to find Pete and Mary. In the photo, the four of them are stood in a line with their arms around each other’s shoulders. He can mind even who it was had took it for them: this wee doddery man in a suit with his hair greased down, parted in a side-shed, who’d gave them his walking stick to look after while he fiddled on trying to get understanding the camera buttons. Cathy and Mary, in their bonniest dresses, holding hands. Himself and Pete blootered. Pete is holding the old boy’s stick, leaning down on it, and the rest of them laughing at him.

  He stares at the picture. He knows the face as well as if he was seventeen still. But it’s just a picture. It doesn’t tell you who she is. It’s just a picture of a young girl on the edge of a photograph, giggling next to her best pal. Mary. He recognizes that face keen enough too. Cathy standing just off to the side, like she always would, no that Mary was any the prettier, nay chance, it was a question of confidence just, that’s all it ever was, and Cathy a wee touch the rounder maybe but so what? At the very beginning it was Mary that him and Pete both had their eyes on. And it had dug his insides up at the time when it was Pete lumbered her first at the dancing, and even then that was only because Pete was further on with the refreshments that night.

  Cathy knew all this. She’d told the story that many times herself. Still but. Mary had been first choice; see you could joke about it all you like but that was how it had happened. There’s no changing it. Easy to forget with all the time that’s passed. For him, anyway, easy for him to forget. But then you start to wonder: does something like that ever genuine go away? Even after the yard folded and the four of them drifted apart – Cathy and him away to Australia, Pete and Mary to one of the New Towns on the outskirts of the city – did she ever think about it?

  He and Cathy would only have been seeing each other a couple of months when this photo was took. Probably he was still beeling at Pete. No that you can tell here, the two of them staggering about holding on to each other, fresh from another visit to the friendly old hen in the pinafore apron handing out the specially blended QE2 whisky. Yous two again, well? Go on, then, give me your cups, ye pair of troublemakers. Near to her, there’d been the bookie taking bets what the name would be: Churchill at three to one, and him and Pete had the John F. Kennedy at five to one, and he can’t mind what odds QE2 had been but certain nobody had guessed it would be that. Except for auld Aberconway, that is, John Brown’s chairman, stood up on deck, Princess Margaret in her white wool coat stood in next to him. And then the Queen herself, of course, she knew; even a wee smile from her as she cuts the ribbon and presses the release button, the crowd starting up with the chants when the ship doesn’t budge off her blocks. ‘We shall not be moved,’ they’d sung. Pete shouting out, ‘Give her a shove!’ and the girls trying to get him to shut his mouth. Then a moment later she starts to shift and there’s a great cheer goes up as she slides down into the water and seven hundred tons of drag chain scutter down the slipway after her.

  In an instant he is up and grabbing an armful of all this stuff from the settee, bundling it against his chest and away out the room, up the stair.

  A shove of the bedroom door and he goes quickly inside, no hanging about as he drops the things onto the bed, the sheets bare and wrinkled, a slant of light hitting where the pillows would be.

  He doesn’t bother with putting the photos in their proper places, he piles them all together and gets them taken up to the bedroom with the rest, a sweat coming on as he hurries up and down the stair. He can picture Mary well enough. He can see what she looks like – the exact image of her face less than a fortnight ago at the funeral talking to him and giving him her consolations. He can see Mary; but he can’t see the wife. In fact he can see just about anybody he puts his mind to apart from her, he can picture Phillip fucking Schofield the better than he can Cathy – the squeezy-arsed grin and the silver hair and the all-of-a-sudden serious hands clasped together leaning forward – there he is, fucking Phillip Schofield.

  He collects the cookbooks, magazines, the Barbaras, the lot, all of it dumped into the bedroom, a dribble of sweat running down his temple now as he comes back in the living room for more. All this stuff, he needs shut of it. It’s not helping him remember her – no in the right way, it isn’t, no the right way at all – it’s just reminding him she’s dead. And that applies to all of it, the whole fucking lot: tapes, tape player, plant pots, salt cellar, vacuum cleaner, all of it, it can all fucking go.

  He stands there, looking around him. Dark outside the window. The room is almost bare: just the settee, the armchair and the television, rooted, in defiance, to their usual positions. He sits down and puts the TV on. The carpet could do with a clean: collections of dust and dirt lined in squares and circles over the floor. The vacuum is away though, buried in the bedroom under a ton of other stuff; and anyway he doesn’t care that it’s dirty, what does it matter, there’s no point being in there even, and he gets up suddenly to go to the kitchen. His mouth is parched. He gets himself a glass of water, drinks it down next to the sink and is about to sit down at the table, only he can’t shake this feeling that he needs to keep moving – keep doing something – and if he doesn’t he will sit down and never be able to get back up again. Probably sensible, actually. See if he sits and does nothing then that just means he’s going to think about it all, and if there’s anything he has learnt the day, it’s that thinking is an unwise idea; thinking only tires you out, makes you act like a lunatic.

  Chapter 7

  ‘See me over the remote, will ye, hen.’

  ‘Here. Mind there’s my programme on soon but.’

  ‘I know.’

  He flicks the channel over and hands her back the remote, careful he doesn’t overbalance his tray, and carries on eating. It’s a good tea. A chilli. She’s put something in it, he’s no too sure what it is, but it’s got a wee bit different of a flavour about it, which he’s liking.

  ‘The appointment go okay the day?’ he says.

  ‘Fine, aye. The doctor gave her a new prescription. Says it might help her sleep better.’

  ‘Seems to be working, eh?’ He smiles, glancing up to the ceiling, and keeps on with his tea. It’s quite loud, the TV, he realizes, and he stretches over for the remote to turn it down.

  ‘I saw Mick Little the day, ye know, one of the drivers at Muir’s.’

  She nods.

  ‘I no tell you his wife died?’

  ‘
No, Christ, that’s awful.’

  ‘Cancer, I think, mesothelioma.’

  ‘That’s awful. Poor man.’

  ‘I know. He looked bad as well, broken, ye know?’

  ‘What do ye expect? His wife died. How ye think he’s gonnae look?’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  He scrapes up the last forkful of chilli and puts the plate by. She’s checking her watch, he notices, no wanting to miss her programme. It’s not on for a few minutes yet though, so they keep watching what’s on, something with a guy on a boat talking into the camera.

  ‘Ye speak to him?’

  ‘Mick? No. It wasnae the right situation. I was coming back with the messages, I passed him on the street.’

  ‘How ye no speak to him, well?’

  ‘Naw it wasnae the right timing. What am I gonnae say, serious? It’s best no intruding. She only died a few weeks ago, I think.’

  She finishes eating and puts her tray on the floor.

  ‘He coming back to work?’

  ‘Maybe, I’m no sure. Possibly not actually, what with how quiet things are the now. Might be he’s near retirement anyway, I don’t know.’

  ‘Ye could give him a knock, maybe, in a few weeks, see if he wants to go for a drink.’

  ‘Maybe, aye.’

  ‘You and Bertie and all them. Give him a while and then call in on him. He’d probably like that, if he’s no going back to work.’

  ‘Come on but, what am I going to do, call in at his house? It’s no like I know the guy that well. I don’t want to go nebbing in on him.’

  ‘Ye’ve been drinking with him before.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but that’s different, that’s at work. It wouldnae be normal, chapping his door, ringing him. The guy doesnae want to feel like a fucking charity case, does he?’

  ‘He got family?’

  ‘He’s a son, aye, up in Yoker, far as I mind. Guy doesnae want people chapping his door every five minutes does he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know the man. It’s awfy sad but.’

  ‘It is.’

  She picks up the remote and turns the channel, pushing back into her seat as he collects the trays and takes them out the room.

  Chapter 8

  The waffles ran out a couple of days ago and he is actually feeling hungry for once. No wanting to leave the house but. No wanting to be in it either, so it’s no the ideal situation: moving from one room to the other, unable to settle anywhere until eventually he does sit down at the kitchen table and he stays there for quite a long time, not thinking, waiting just for the hunger to get the better of him and force him out the front door.

  There’s McDowell’s, and that would be the obvious choice, the familiar place, but what he’s after is a bit of peace as he’s eating his bacon roll and so he goes a bit further down the high street to the other one, the Millennium Star. The same recognizable sounds and smells but: bacon hissing on the fryer, the half-tuned radio, the week’s pile of newspapers next to the tea urn. There’s a raggedy old ticket near the door, bent over the day’s paper. He’s probably been in all morning, squinnying at the racing odds. Mick gets himself sat in the corner, away from the old guy and the only other table: three roadworkers silently beasting into chicken dinners with peas and gravy and roast tatties. The girl comes over and he orders himself a roll and a tea. She gives him the once-over before she walks away, but there you go, he’s no exactly looking his best, what can you expect?

  They’re East Europes, these three. Big, quiet baldy crusts – a sure banker there’s a whole coachload of them sleeping shifts in a tenement single-end somewhere, and so what, good on them, see if it’s no them doing the work then who else is going to do it? These young lads you see loundering about the streets and the schemes complaining there’s no work for them? Nay chance. And if all the yards were still standing, you know fine well it would be these boys working on them, building the ships. Hot, hard, dangerous work, no for the lounderers of this world. There’d be no complaint from these but; a bedroom of bogging feet but there goes another paycheque straight on the plane and have you got any more shifts for me, gaffer?

  The salty smack of the bacon tastes good. He eats slowly, in stages, making sure it goes down nice and easy. She’s still got her eye on him, the waitress, drying cutlery into a tray. Worried he might do a run-out. Maybe he should get out some bits of smash onto the table. She’s no half so suspicious of the old ticket by the door but, that’s clear enough, the way she’s trotting over for a wee patter and a top-up of his tea mug. Canny old scaffer. He’s got it sussed. He probably comes in every day. Then on the panel, claiming for all his afflictions, the money never seeing further than the fifty-yard stretch from here past the bookie’s to the offie. No that you can blame him but. If they want to top up his tea for free then it’s no like he’s going to stop them, is he? This is his patch; they know him here, and he is tolerated and fed titbits like a stray cat. How wouldn’t you keep coming back?

  Bread and eggs and biscuits and all this stuff they do their own brand of in the Co. Plus a bottle of whisky, for good measure. He’s got himself a trolley, although he isn’t intending filling it, see even if he wanted to he doesn’t have enough cash on his tail. He last went to the cash machine just before Robbie and Jenna left, and he saw then that the account is pretty low getting. Which is how there’s no choice but to phone in to work again when he gets back, and tell them he’s coming in to sort out renting a car. Nay excuses this time.

  It is quiet, this time of day. There’s a calm atmosphere in the place, full of the steady sounds of overhead lights and fridges and a wee forklift chirring past with boxes of butter packs. Further down his aisle, there’s a woman battling on with the messages as she tries to get her weans under control, pulling them out of freezers and fishing out rogue items from the trolley, crisps and cans of ginger and all these things that have found their way in there.

  He stands watching his shopping move along the belt. It would have been an idea getting a vegetable or two. A bag of peas, or a nice big cabbage. Too late the now but. Next time maybe.

  ‘Mick.’

  He turns round. It is Mary. Pete is behind her.

  She makes as if she’s going to come toward him, but his trolley is in the way.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Pete says.

  ‘Okay, Pete, thanks.’ The whisky bottle teeters as the belt jerks forward. He reaches for the divider, and his hand is shaking a little as he puts it behind his shopping. He keeps it held down a moment. ‘Good time the day to come, this, eh?’

  They are both looking at him.

  ‘It is, aye,’ Pete says. ‘Quiet.’

  The cashier is finished scanning his things. She’s waiting for him to move forward, his items strewn now over the bagging area.

  Mary is watching him. The cashier is watching him. They’re bloody all watching him. His amount is showing on the screen, and it’s more than he was expecting. He gets out the wallet, his hands still jittery and the whole thing turned by now into a self-conscious show of himself; nothing he can say or do that doesn’t some way point at it, the dead wife. What’s he doing for money now he’s no been working? Is he gone on the broo? Or is he gone on the whisky, look?

  There is enough money, and he pays. He gets bagging up as Pete and Mary’s shopping starts coming down the belt. Chicken pieces, a Still Game DVD, a curry pack, wood varnish. That’s the weekend lined up, well, chugging along. Suddenly a squeeze on his arm, and he looks into Mary’s face, smiling at him. Here it comes, then.

  ‘Mick, it’s good to see you. We’ve no been thinking about anything else.’

  Pete is looking on with a small pinched smile.

  She takes her hand away. ‘Call on us, please, Mick. Any time eh?’

  ‘Thanks, Mary. I will.’

  He picks up his bag and he sees that the cashier is at it now as well. All three of them smiling pityingly at him as he’s about to leave; they look like relatives stood around a hospital bed
.

  He gets the kettle on, watching the sparrow outside pecking at bits of bread, and goes upstairs to wash his face. There’ll be no more horrifying of waitresses in cafés, he has resolved. Then he comes down to drink the tea and watch a bit of television.

  It is too hot in the house, so he gets up to open the windows – the one in the living room and then the kitchen back door. Let a bit of air pass through. And after that, a whisky? Why no? The afternoon’s getting on now, and a couple of biscuits and a whisky could be just the thing. Calm the nerves. Get relaxed. Then when he’s settled he can pick up the phone and ring in to work. No use sat about here all the time doing nothing, he’s the better getting moving and keeping the brain occupied, and as well the whole social aspect, a bit of patter with the passengers; the other drivers. He gives a wee laugh. A bit of patter? And what about? Did ye see the game at the weekend, what a cracker, eh, and we were out after and ye’ll never guess what happened, wait til ye hear this yin. Life goes on, Mick. What is it ye expect, eh, ye want us to stand about in silence because of what’s happened, and it’s no that we don’t sympathize because we do, it’s just life goes on, our lives they go on. Suddenly a loud bang jumps him, and a jet of whisky hits him in the face. He wheels round to look at the doorway, understanding: the draught, it must be. His hands are started going as he puts his glass down to go and fix it out.

  It is. It’s the draught. He closes up all the doors and windows and goes back to sit down and calm himself. Straight away it’s hot again, but he’ll have to live with it just, better that than a fucking heart attack.

  Lynsey will have left the office by now; somebody else on the dispatch. Somehow, the thought of talking to her again, it unsettles him. Implications. All these bloody implications that there’s no way around. Lynsey and the wee giggle they could always have, a flirt, you might call it even, but it’s fine, it’s fine because you get to an age and you’re married and sex isn’t in the equation when women are talking to you. You’re no a threat, so you can have a laugh and a giggle because nobody’s on the lookout for your physical needs and your desires – but now – see now those are all busted into the open and people are wary of you because that’s exactly what they’re looking out for.