Neither spoke when she came back. She sat on her wooden chair and stared into the fire. Cloying black smoke drifted from the new lump. It crackled.
A little after 9.45 she looked up on hearing the light rap on the outside door. The boy stirred from his doze. He made to rise and answer but relaxed when she indicated he should remain where he was.
The outside door opened and closed, and muttering as the footsteps approached. She came in first and he followed, he appeared to be limping slightly. Mumbling incoherently and did not notice his grandson. She walked across to the sink and filled the kettle and set it on the oven gas to make a pot of tea. The boy wondered if she knew what his grandfather was saying to her. He called a greeting. The old man turned slowly and stared at him. The boy grinned but the old man turned back and resumed the muttering. His grandmother seemed not to notice anything odd about it. As the old man spoke he was scratching his head. There was no bunnet. The bunnet was not on his head.
The muttering stopped. The old man stared at the woman then at the boy. The boy looked helplessly at her but she watched the man. The expression on her face gave nothing away. Her usual face. Again the boy called a greeting but the old man turned to her and continued his muttering. The tone of his voice had altered now; it was angry. She looked away from him. When her gaze fell on him the boy tried to smile. He was aware that if he blinked, tears would appear in his eyes. He smiled at her.
Ten shillings I’m telling you, said the voice.
The boy and his grandmother looked quickly at the old man.
Ten shillings Frances, he said. The anger had gone from his voice. As if noticing the boy for the first time he looked straight at him. For several seconds he stood there, watching him, then he turned sharply back to face his wife. Ach, he grunted.
She was standing holding the apron bunched in her fists. Shaking his head the man attempted a step towards her but he fell on the floor. He sat up for a moment then fell sideways. The boy ran across crying it was okay — it was okay.
His grandmother spoke as he bent down over the old man.
He fell down, she said. He fell down.
She knelt by him on the linoleum and together they tried to raise him to his feet but it was difficult; he was heavy. The boy dragged over a chair and they managed to get him up onto it. He slumped there, his head lolling, his chin touching his chest.
He lost money, said the old woman. He said he lost money. That was what kept him. He went looking the streets for it and lost his bunnet.
It’s okay Grannie, said the boy.
It kept him late, she said.
After a moment the boy asked if they should get him changed into his pyjamas and then into bed but she did not reply. He asked again, urgently.
I’ll get him son, she said eventually. You can get away home now.
He looked at her in surprise.
Your mum and dad will be wondering where you’ve got to, she added.
It was pointless saying anything more. He could tell that by her face. Crossing to the bed in the recess he lifted his coat and slipped it on. He opened the door. When he glanced back his grandmother nodded. She was grasping her husband by the shoulders, propping him up. He could see the old man looking at her. He could see the big bald patch on the head. His grandmother nodded once more. He left then.
Even Money
It was a bit strange to see the two of them. She was wee and skinny with a really pecked-out crabbit face. He was also skinny, but shifty looking. Difficult to tell why he was shifty looking. Maybe he wasnt. Aye he was, he was fucking shifty looking and that’s final. He was following her. He could easily have caught up with her and introduced hisself but he didnt, he just followed her, in steady pursuit, at a safe distance. And that is the action of a shifty character. The fact that a well-thumbed copy of the Sporting Life poked out from his coat pocket is neither here nor there. Being a betting man myself I’ve always resented the shady associations punters have for non-bettors. Anyhow, back to the story, the distance between the pair amounted to twenty yards, and there is an interesting point to discuss. It is this: the wee woman actually passed the man in the first place and may have seen him. She could have nodded or even spoken to him. But she did seem not to notice him. Because of that I dont know whether she knew him or not. And it is not possible to say if he knew her. He looked to be following her in an off-hand kind of fashion. When she stopped outside the post office he paused. In she went. But just as you were thinking, Aw aye, there he goes. . Naw; he didnt, he just walked on.
Home for a couple of days
Three raps at the door. His eyes opened and blinked as they met the sun rays streaming in through the slight gap between the curtains. ‘Mister Brown?’ called somebody — a girl’s voice.
‘Just a minute.’ He squinted at his wristwatch. 9 o’clock. He walked to the door and opened it, poked his head out from behind it.
‘That’s your breakfast.’ She held out the tray as if for approval. A boiled egg and a plate of toast, a wee pot of tea.
‘Thanks, that’s fine, thanks.’ He took it and shut the door, poured a cup of tea immediately and carried it into the bathroom. He was hot and sweaty and needed a shower. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was quite looking forward to the day. Hearing the girl’s accent made it all even more so. After the shower he started on the grub, ate all the toast but left the egg. He finished the pot of tea then shaved. As he prepared to leave he checked his wallet. He would have to get to a bank at some point.
The Green Park was a small hotel on the west side of Sauchiehall Street. Eddie had moved in late last night and taken a bed and breakfast. Beyond that he was not sure, how long he would be staying. Everything depended.
He was strolling in the direction of Partick, glancing now and then at the back pages of the Daily Record, quite enjoying the novelty of Scottish football again. He stopped himself from smiling, lighted a cigarette. It was a sunny morning in early May and maybe it was that alone made him feel so optimistic about the future. The sound of a machine, noisy — but seeming to come from far away. It was just from the bowling greens across the street, a loud lawn-mower or something.
He continued round the winding bend, down past the hospital and up Church Street, cutting in through Chancellor Street and along the lane. The padlock hung ajar on the bolt of the door of the local pub he used to frequent. Farther on the old primary school across the other side of the street. He could not remember any names of teachers or pupils at this moment. A funny feeling. It was as if he had lost his memory for one split second. He had stopped walking. He lighted another cigarette. When he returned the lighter and cigarette packet to the side pockets of his jacket he noticed a movement in the net curtains of the ground floor window nearby where he was standing. It was Mrs McLachlan. Who else. He smiled and waved but the face disappeared.
His mother stayed up the next close. He kept walking. He would see her a bit later on. He would have to get her something too, a present, she was due it.
Along Dumbarton Road he entered the first cafe and he ordered a roll and sausage and asked for a cup of tea right away. The elderly woman behind the counter did not look twice at him. Why should she? She once caught him thieving a bar of Turkish Delight, that’s why. He read the Daily Record to the front cover, still quite enjoying it all, everything, even the advertisements with the Glasgow addresses, it was good reading them as well.