She stayed well back and waited as they bought bread and glass bottles of fizzy juice; some asked for soap powder; others just after the wooden penny sweet tray the man proffered like a Tiffany’s display. She waited until the crowd thinned before approaching.
The van smelled of soap and sweets. The man serving wore a grubby white grocer’s coat with yellow action streaks around the pockets. Across his neck was a red slash scar from a long time ago, the soft skin puckered around the shiny stripe.
He smiled expectantly at her. “What can I do ye for?”
“Packet of Refreshers, please.”
He reached over to his right, so sure of his stock that he didn’t need to look at the shelves, and put the glittery packet of fizzy sweets on the counter.
“Okay, li’le lady. Anything else catch your eye? A loaf? A bottle of ginger?” He pointed to the glass rows of fizzy drink and winked at her.
She grinned at his fake American accent. “Listen, can I ask ye this: those boys who were arrested for…” She didn’t know how to phrase it. “For hurting Baby Brian. Did they know anyone on this scheme?”
He pulled her change from his money belt and narrowed his lips. “Those filthy wee buggers. I say give them to the women’s prison, they’d know what to do with them.”
It didn’t sound like a very good plan to Paddy. She frowned, and he saw it.
“No,” he corrected himself, “you’re right, you’re right. We need to forgive.”
“Aye, right enough,” she said awkwardly, moving the conversation on. “Anyway, were they visiting someone here?”
“I heard they were at the swing park.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. I was just wondering, because it’s kind of out of the way. Could they have been visiting someone?”
The van man shrugged. “I dunno. If they’d been at a house someone would know about it. Everyone here sees everything. Why are you asking?”
“Dunno.” She picked the change up off the counter. “Just wondering about it. Seems funny, know what I mean?”
He looked suspicious. “You don’t live here, do you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m a journalist at the Daily News,” she said proudly, and immediately remembered Farquarson’s warning. “My name’s Heather Allen.”
“Right?” He looked her up and down. “A journalist, is it? I tell ye what, could it be the ice-cream van? Maybe they were passing and heard the van coming. It stops outside the wee boy’s garden.”
“Really?” She was glad he hadn’t pressed her about her career.
He shooed her out onto the pavement and lifted his fold-down counter, following her down the step to show her. “There.” He was peering past Gina Wilcox’s house. “See the wee lane?”
Paddy couldn’t see it at first. She had to strain her eyes through the soupy dark to see the triple railings along the far side of Gina’s garden. There was a lane down the side of it.
“That lane leads straight to the main road. The ice-cream van stops just there.” He indicated the curb across the road from Gina’s house. “Stops there at the back of twelve every day and then at half four again.” He looked at her. “That’s when the wee man went missing, eh?”
Paddy nodded. “Aye, back of twelve, right enough. Don’t know if those boys’d have money for a van, though.”
“Aye, well, Hughie keeps a penny tray for the poorer weans.” She wondered how he knew so much about it, and he saw the questioning look. “We fell out about it,” he explained. “The penny tray was my idea in the first place. His rounds are earlier than mine, so he takes all the custom. He’s a snipey bastard.”
She pointed at his quiff. “Were you a Teddy boy, then?”
“I am a Teddy boy,” he said indignantly. “Ye don’t stop being what ye are because it’s out of fashion.”
She looked at his feet and only then noticed his drainpipe trousers and crepe soles. “God, you’re very loyal to your style.”
“And why not? Tell me this: Who’s as good as Elvis now? Who can sing like Carl Perkins these days? None of them.”
Paddy smiled at his abrupt energy. “So, I suppose.”
“What’s your favorite Frankie Vaughan song?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know any.”
He was disappointed. It had been a test question, she could tell. “Ye don’t know any Frankie Vaughan? Not know ‘Mr. Moonlight’? Young folk today, I don’t know. Do you know what he did for this city?”
“Aye, I know, that I know.” The crooner Frankie Vaughan had been so appalled at the levels of violence when he played Glasgow in the fifties that he met the gang leaders and appealed to them to hand in their weapons. He became a totem for peace but was mostly now remembered by those who had caused the trouble in the first place.
“You young ones, yees don’t know music at all. I bet you’re one of they punkers.”
Paddy laughed. “Punk was a hundred years ago.”
“Drug music, that’s what it is. Frankie should come back here and set them right.” He did a little tap dance move, raising a hand, extending a foot, and they laughed together in the soft dark. Paddy wished she didn’t ever have to go home.
The van man waved her off and closed up his back door, driving off up the street and leaving her alone.
She wandered up the road, chewing through the frothy Refreshers, and looked into the alley. Beyond the houses and the small back gardens she could see the yellow lights of the main road and the bus stop from Barnhill. The boys could easily have got off there and wandered through to the van. She hadn’t read the scheme properly at all. She was wasting her time.
FOURTEEN . MARY ANN IS LAUGHING
I
As Paddy walked to the train station she felt all her future hopes fade. She was too naive to make it as a journalist. She should have known Heather would use the story. Any good journalist would have, anyone who wasn’t destined to spend the rest of their career writing obituaries or fashion tips about hemlines and tweed. She’d never make it. She’d have to marry Sean and raise a hundred pyromaniac kids like Mrs. Breslin.
The platform for the low-level train was crammed with people. Paddy joined the end of the crowd of commuters gathered on the stairs. Standing in the dull subterranean light, resting her hip against the damp railing, she tried not to speculate about her mother’s or Sean’s reaction to her when she got home. All around her on the stairs people were reading papers with headlines about the Baby Brian Boys. It would be particularly hard, she thought, to be a child in trouble with no one to defend you but Callum Ogilvy’s mother.
Paddy couldn’t recall her name but she remembered her well. After the funeral mass for Callum’s father the mourners had gone back to the Ogilvy house. It was dark and dank and poor. Wallpaper had been pulled off in the hall and living room and left on the floor.
By way of a drink, Sean’s Auntie Maggie had dished out whisky from a bottle she had brought herself. There weren’t any glasses in the house; they had to use chipped mugs and pastel plastic children’s beakers. Paddy’s beaker hadn’t been washed out properly, and a crescent of dried milk floated to the surface, clouding the whisky.
Callum’s mother had long, straggly hair that hung from a center parting over her face, slicing away cheekbones and jaw, leaving her as nothing but a pair of dead, wet eyes and bloodless lips. Sometimes her face would slacken, her mouth would fall open, and she would weep, exhausted. She helped herself to other people’s cups from the table, getting drunk quickly, disgracing herself. Sean said that she’d been like that before the father died, she’d been like that for a long time, and everybody already knew about it. The mourners had stayed on just as long as was polite and all left at the same time, lifting from the dirty Barnhill house as suddenly as a startled flock of birds.