He had to see Stuart as soon as possible. Stuart had said that he knew somebody in Glasgow who could help Lou. Had he contacted him? Had he come up with anything? Matthew realised that unless they were able to do something quickly, then Big Lou would sell the coffee bar and go back to Arbroath. He could not allow that to happen – he would not allow it. Big Lou was a feature of his life and, he suspected, the lives of so many others in that part of town. If she went, a little bit of the character of the place would die. One of the new coffee bars would move in, with its standard international décor and its bland sameness. The coffee might be good enough, but these places spelled death to the particular, to the sense of place that a real local coffee bar embodied. They were simply without character, although they might never understand how people could think that. But people did. It was the difference between French cheese, unpasteurised and odiferous (but divine), and the processed rubbery paste that the big food interests passed off as cheese. International business, once allowed to stalk uncontrolled, killed the local, the small, the quirky. International business, thought Matthew, had ruined cheese, will ruin wine, and then will move on to ruin everything. No, he thought, Big Lou’s little coffee bar was now the front line.
Eventually, Matthew decided that the only thing he could do was to go to the Cumberland Bar shortly after five that evening and wait to see if Stuart came in. And if he did not, he could ask the barman or one of the regulars; somebody was bound to know where he lived.
As it happened, Matthew did not have long to wait. Shortly And Here’s the Train to Glasgow, Again 311
before five-thirty, Stuart came in and walked over to the bar.
Matthew left his seat to intercept him. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you urgently. I’ve already bought you a drink. It’s at the table.” He took Stuart by the elbow and led him away from the bar.
Stuart was slightly irritated by Matthew’s insistence, but he was in a good humour, as he had been left on his own for a couple of hours. Bertie had been returned safely from Paris that afternoon and had been dragged off for a specially-arranged session with Dr Fairbairn. The psychotherapist had been asked to determine whether there was any psychological trauma that might result from the experience of being left in Paris; Irene was of the view that early identification of trauma helped to reduce its long-term impact. And anything could have happened in Paris; anything. In fact, Bertie had enjoyed himself immensely, and had felt his heart sink when he returned to the hotel after the Sorbonne lecture to discover his mother, and several French policemen, waiting for him. The sight of the policemen had not worried him, but the realisation that his mother had come to take him home had filled him with such despair that he had burst into tears. This had been interpreted by Irene as a sign of trauma.
“My wee boy’s just come back from Paris,” Stuart remarked conversationally, as they went over to Matthew’s table. “He went over there with an orchestra. Then they somehow managed to . . .”
“Oh yes,” said Matthew, without any real interest. “Good.”
They sat down and Matthew got straight to the point. “You said you knew somebody in Glasgow who might get Eddie to pay Lou back,” he said. “Any progress?”
Stuart smiled. “Steady on,” he said. “It was just an idea.”
“But you do know somebody?” Matthew pressed.
“Yes,” said Stuart. “I do.”
“Well can we go and see him right now?” said Matthew, looking at his watch. “We could get the six o’clock from Waverley if we rush.”
“But hold on,” said Stuart. “I’m not sure if I want to go to Glasgow tonight.”
312 And Here’s the Train to Glasgow, Again Matthew looked at him pleadingly. “Please,” he said. “A lot depends on this.”
Stuart sighed. “I’ve just got back from work. I don’t want to sit in a train . . .”
“We’ll take a taxi,” said Matthew. “I’ll pay for the whole thing.
Taxi there. Taxi back. Same taxi – I’ll pay the waiting time. Let’s just do it.”
Stuart studied Matthew’s expression for a few moments and realised that he was desperate. He remembered, too, how he had felt when he had heard the story of Big Lou having her money effectively stolen. If he really disapproved, then he should have the courage of his convictions and do something, rather than just talk. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get up to Waverley.
It’ll be quicker by train.”
They caught a taxi at the end of Cumberland Street and just made the six o’clock train. As the train drew out of town, Matthew looked out into the gathering darkness of the late autumn evening. There were clusters of light here and there, and beyond them the dark shape of the hills. That was what the world is like, he thought: a dark place, with small clusters of light here and there, where there is justice and concord between men.
A man came through with a trolley and at Stuart’s request poured them each a cup of tea. Matthew paid, and they sat back in their seats with the scalding tea before them. The man at the trolley was good-natured. “There you are, boys,” he said, handing them little cartons of milk to go with their tea. “That’ll keep you going over there in Glasgow. You’ll no get ony tea over there!” He smiled at them, and they smiled back. On these small kindnesses, thought Matthew, is everything built. And Scotland was good at that, for all its faults. People were, on the whole, kind, and they were particularly kind in Glasgow, he remembered. Of course one would get tea over there!
“Stuart, tell me about this man we’re going to see,” Matthew said. “What’s he like?”
Stuart smiled. “You’ll be able to tell that he doesn’t come from Edinburgh,” he said.
100. Grey over Riddrie
Grey over Riddrie, thought Stuart as the train wound its way through Glasgow, just short of Queen Street Station. Grey over Riddrie . . . and then? Something about the clouds. The clouds piled up . . . Yes, that was it. That was the first line of Edwin Morgan’s poem about King Billy, a Glasgow gang leader who had one of those showy funerals which brought out all the hard men, the troops, the foot-soldiers of ancient gang battles. He thought about the haunting poem each time he saw Riddrie, and remembered, too, how he had learned of it in his final year at school. It had been read out in class by the English teacher and there had been a complete silence when he came to the end, so powerful was its effect. And now, all these years later, here he was going to see just such a man, although Lard O’Connor was not quite King Billy. They were distinguished by a small matter of religious affiliations, apart from anything else.
Matthew and Stuart had only to wait a few minutes for a taxi and then set off for the Dumbarton Road. Stuart could not remember Lard O’Connor’s precise address, but he had no difficulty in describing the small cul-de-sac where he and Bertie had first made Lard’s acquaintance.
The taxi driver knew immediately. “That’ll be Lard O’Connor’s place, then?” he asked.
Stuart was somewhat taken aback by this, and resorted to his civil service language in reply. “That would appear to be the case,” he said. “Assuming that this Lard O’Connor to whom you refer is . . .”
“Listen, Jim,” said the taxi driver. “There’s only one Lard O’Connor, see? And that’s this Lard O’Connor. He’s your man.
You owe him money, then?”
“Of course not,” said Stuart tetchily.
“There’s lots of folks do,” said the driver. “Lard’s very easy on the loans. But not so easy if you don’t pay him back like.”
“You could say the same thing for the banks,” said Stuart.