— It’s never too late.
Elspeth seems to consider this, as if contemplating, then biting back a stinging retort that was forming on her lips. — I’m really sorry about Sean, she begins, then her expression sets sternly. — But we should put our cards on the table. Just soas we both know where we stand.
Franco raises a single brow. — Fine by me.
— Ye kin fool some ay them wi your big rehabilitated act, Elspeth smiles scornfully, — but ye cannae con me. Ah know you. Ah ken what you are. She looks at him, waiting for a reaction.
None is forthcoming. Her brother seems not so much to have failed to take any offence as to have not heard what she actually said.
— But we’re still family, she sighs. — So you’re welcome to kip in our spare room till after the funeral.
— I’m much obliged.
Elspeth’s eyes narrow. — But one step out of line and you’re out the door. Ah mean it, Frank. I’ve the boys here.
Frank Begbie feels something familiar rise inside him. He wants to stand up and tell her to fuck off, and just get out of that dull, ordered suburban home, with its bland, beige decor and furnishings. But he sucks air into his lungs and looks at the two china dogs on the mantelpiece. They were his mother’s, they came from the old place. Then he turns and nods slowly at her in the affirmative. — I understand.
Elspeth seems disconcerted at this compliant response, and visibly swallows. — Sean came round here a few times, you know.
— Aye?
— It was good at first, lovely tae see him, she smiles, before grimly shaking her head, — then when he went downhill, he was only here tae cadge money.
— I’ll pay you back.
— It’s no about that. Elspeth lifts her glass. — I didnae want him hanging around Thomas and George. They’re good boys. But they looked up to him, because he was older and their big cousin.
Frank tries to take all this in. Sean, his nephews, this house here in Murrayfield. It is acceptable enough, though nowhere near as impressive as his own home in California, he reflects with some satisfaction. When he was a kid in Leith, Murrayfield appeared to be a millionaires’ playground. Now, to his critical eyes, it seems — at least this part of it — just another drab, shabby neighbourhood and nothing whatsoever to aspire to. But his head is crackling with static and a huge yawn rips from him. — Listen, ah’m a bit jet-lagged. Would it be okay tae get my head down for a bit?
— Of course, Elspeth says, and she leads him through to the spare room.
Franco strips to his underpants and gets beneath the duvet. Enjoying the luxury of stretching out flat after the cramped plane, he drifts off into an unsatisfactory sleep full of disjointed dreams. A few hours have elapsed when he is woken by noises coming from downstairs. Punching Terry’s number into his iPhone, he then does some stretches, followed by a bit of shadow-boxing in the full-length mirror and 150 pushups, before taking a shower.
The boys, George and Thomas, aged ten and nine, have returned from school. They regard him in blank fascination. After an exchange of pleasantries about flights and America, George ventures, — Mum said that you were in prison.
— George! Elspeth hisses.
— Naw, it’s okay, Franco smiles. — Yes, I was.
— Wow. . you must have done some bad things, right?
— Some bad things, Franco concurs, — but mostly stupid things. That’s why people go to jail. But you lads seem far too smart for that caper. So how’s school?
The boys are both keen to recount their days, and as he chats to them, Franco is confounded by how much he actually likes his nephews. Even Elspeth seems to lighten, and he shows her pictures of the girls on his iPhone. — They’re beautiful, she says, but almost in accusation, her tones hinting at the inevitability of him somehow destroying them.
Greg, Elspeth’s husband, arrives home from work. He has put on a bit of weight and his hair has thinned. — Frank! Great see you. He extends a hand and shakes Franco’s firmly. — Obviously sorry about the circumstances, he glumly corrects himself.
— Aye, you too, and thanks, Franco manages, thinking how Greg looks like the classic British middle manager; tired, harassed and beset with the crippling awareness that he’s gone as far as he’s likely to, and that the next big life change will be long-off retirement or worse, not-so-long-off redundancy. — How’s work?
— You do not want to know, Greg shakes his head.
You do not want to know how much I do not want to know, Franco thinks.
But Greg, like his sons, is friendly, and keen to make conversation. — Merger talk in the air. Never good, Frank. He stares out the window. Dropping his breath, he repeats, — Never good.
After dinner (Franco is disconcerted to find himself calling it that too, instead of tea) the boys go to their rooms, and Greg gets more serious, nursing a whisky, as Elspeth loads up the dishwasher in the kitchen. — I really admire you, Frank, the way you’ve turned your life around through art. It must be so rewarding.
— Money’s good but, ay.
— I always fancied writing the great Scottish novel. . Greg wistfully intones as he points to a bookcase. — I took a creative writing course once. .
Franco tracks Greg’s gaze, taking in the spines of the usual suspects, finding that he’s read most of them. — They ey said ah was good at art at school, but I could never see it. I once drew this picture wi a black sun. The teacher went radge; ‘A black sun, Francis Begbie?’ But I liked the idea of a black sun, like a black hole in space. Sucking everything intae darkness: where we came from, where we’re headed.
Greg nods, but his grin crumbles as the desolate weight of Franco’s words hits home. He rallies, and ventures admiringly, — To have that kind of creativity. . I wish it was me! Meeting all those stars. . Have you ever met Jennifer Aniston?
— Best blow job ah ever had.
Greg raises his brows, glances towards the kitchen, and lowers his voice. — Wow, you’re joking, right?
— Aye. She wisnae that good.
— Ha ha ha. . Greg chortles, falling into silence as Elspeth reappears.
Frank has been looking at the CDs displayed in a big cabinet. Underneath there are several board games stacked on a shelf that grab his attention. He rises to inspect them. — Monopoly. . an Edinburgh yin! Never knew they did that. Fancy a game?
— No, Elspeth says with stony finality. — Do you remember the last time we played Monopoly as a family? At my ma’s that Christmas?
Franco is suddenly taciturn, as the boys come through from their rooms. — What happened? George asks.
— Never you mind, says Elspeth.
Franco recalls how they had placed a bottle of the Famous Grouse whisky in the middle of the board, the idea being that when somebody landed on Free Parking, they would have a nip. He seemed to land on it a lot. Then Joe had cheated, claiming he had rolled a ten instead of an eleven, thus positioning himself on Park Lane, intending to add it to the Mayfair he already had. Frank had picked up the bottle and sent it crashing down over his brother’s head, to the shock of Elspeth, June, Joe’s ex Sandra, and their mother, Val. They’d taken Joe to the hospital, where he had received twelve stitches. This recollection makes Franco change his mind. He pulls out Mousetrap. — No seen one ay them for years, he says, opening the box.
— You used to hate that game, Elspeth recalls. — You eywis said that it was a lot of work to go round the board, just to set the thing off, and it didnae always work.
— I quite fancy a wee game, but, for auld times’ sake, Frank suggests. — This is posher than the one we had. I don’t mind of the man in the bath, and he looks at the plastic accessories, which George and Thomas are already eagerly assembling on the board.