‘Are you sure there is a swindle, Matt?’ ventured Patterson hesitantly. ‘Couldn’t it all be luck?’
‘Of course I’m sure, George,’ snapped back the small, sharp-faced man. ‘What do you take me for? I ken what their game is. You can’t keep anything like that hidden from Matt Duncan. I’m too fly for them, you see. They think I’m dunnert.’ His mouth was a savage twist and his breath came short and noisily. Patterson kept quiet and drank his lager while the tumult continued. There were a lot of twisted men like Matt Duncan throughout the mining towns of Fife. Usually they were not the best workers, had lived bitter, ignorant married lives, and had been brought up in similar households. In other words, their hate was handed down to them from their parents, handed down through the generations like a christening shawl. It seemed an attitude peculiar to the working class. Patterson often mused over it. It appeared to him an easy way out, an excuse for not having done anything in life. If you succeeded you were “lucky”, or a crook; other factors did not enter into it. If you failed, you had never had a chance. Everything had been against you in the first place. A shiver went through Patterson. He had been living in this community for fifty-five years. Luckily, his father had been a professional person. That was regarded as his lucky beginning. Only once had he felt as Duncan felt all the time. Just that once. His mind recoiled from the self-hatred and the grotesque thought of that isolated time. He shook his can.
‘Empty?’ asked Duncan.
‘Yes, Matt. Very empty,’ said Patterson thoughtfully. ‘I’ll get my coat and we can go to the hotel for a proper drink.’
‘Fine,’ said Duncan, patting his pockets. ‘Ach,’ he said as always, ‘I’ve forgotten my wallet again, George, and that thief of a bookmaker cleaned me out. Shall I run up to the house and fetch it?’ Patterson, as always, shook his head.
‘No need for that, Matt. No need for that at all.’ He even smiled.
His mother had invited Andy Wallace round for an evening meal. They were planning to go to Kirkcaldy afterwards to see a film. The three of them sat around the seldom-used dining table and the only sound for a time was that of good cutlery against china.
‘Haven’t you had your results yet, Sandy?’ said Andy Wallace finally.
‘Got them this morning,’ replied Sandy, toying with a potato. His mother put down her fork. Her hands lay against either side of her plate as if she were about to ask for more.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘Five As, a B, and a C.’
‘Well, well, well.’ Andy Wallace sat back in his chair, smiling, looking across at Mary. ‘That’s a very good performance. Better than your marks in your prelims.’
Mary Miller tried to squeeze her son’s hand, but he slid it away from her and scratched his nose.
‘With results like those,’ continued Andy Wallace, ‘you’d be daft to leave at Christmas. Why not stay on for your Highers?’
‘Yes, Sandy. Stay on.’
Sandy looked at his mother and his English teacher. He was surprised by the emotion in his mother’s voice. Andy Wallace, though trying not to show it, was astonished at himself. A little while ago he had been hoping that Sandy would leave school at the earliest opportunity. Now here he was telling the boy to stay on. He was pleased at his morality; he had the teaching reflex.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Sandy.
‘You do that,’ said Andy Wallace. Mary smiled at both of them. It was like being part of a family. Recently she had been worrying about Andy’s attitude towards her. For how long would he continue to be so patient? She could not know, but she sensed his growing frustration. If only she could make love, just the once, then it would be all right. If only.
‘You could go to university with marks like that if you were to stick in,’ said Andy, anxious not to let the table recede into another silence. He pronged four peas on to the end of his fork and grabbed them between his teeth. ‘They’re as good as I ever got,’ he said.
Sandy, however, had retreated back into his meal. He cut the meat delicately. He concentrated on his plate. He did not want this conversation to continue. His mother’s cheeks were a proud red. She looked more than ever like a princess trapped in a tower. Sandy remembered the poem he had written about Rian. It could have applied just as well to his mother. Her hair was tied simply behind her. Silver through black. Metal through water. She seemed to glimmer in the pale light. Sandy was looking forward to having the house to himself for the evening. He was going to invite Rian round to visit in his mother’s absence. He smiled at the thought. His mother noticed his smile and returned it. He had not the heart to turn away from her in her happiness.
It was quiet at the mansion. A cold breeze ruffled the ancient oaks and carried the cries of the golfers towards him from the first tee. He waited until they had moved off across the fairway before he climbed the pipe. He was an adventurer now. Nothing stood in his way. He only hoped Robbie was still at the caravan. It seemed a forlorn hope, but he would get Rian away despite any move made by her brother. He had to take her to neutral territory (or, if the bravado held up, to his home territory) in order to put certain questions to her.
He kicked in the shoddy piece of board, hoisted his legs over the sill, and was in. He walked quickly through the shadowy corridor, looking neither left nor right, and opened the door to her room. There was nobody there. He walked inside anyway, not believing his bad fortune.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
His heart missed a beat in fright. He turned. She had been hiding behind the door.
‘I heard the window,’ she said. ‘It didn’t sound like Robbie, so I hid.’ She was facing him now, close. He took a step towards her and their lips met, their tongues twisting like tiny serpents at the mouth of a cave. He held her waist. Her hair touched the backs of his hands. When he opened his eyes this time he saw that hers were ecstatically closed. The black slits of her lashes gave more passion to his kiss. She pulled away.
‘We’re going out. Okay?’ Sandy’s voice, prepared to be manly, was trembling and uncertain.
‘Where?’ Her eyes were wide. She folded her long arms around herself. She was cold. Sandy remembered that her skin had been deathly to the touch.
‘Somewhere warm,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like to see where I live. My mum’s out with her boyfriend. They won’t be back till midnight. Would you like to?’ Now he was the pleading schoolboy with a would-be friend. His eyes were as wide as he could make them. Rian messed with her hair.
‘I should wait for Robbie. He’s been gone all day.’
‘He’s at his Aunt Kitty’s.’
‘Is he?’ She was genuinely surprised. ‘That’s not where he said he was going. How do you know?’ As she moved to the window he noticed that her face was puffy from sleep, as innocent as a new-born. She leaned against the half-boarded window.
‘I went with him this afternoon for a little while.’ Her eyes darted to him like stinging things.
‘You did?’ she asked, her voice quivering.
‘Yes, to find out the meaning of an itchy nose. You remember.’
‘Oh, but that was a long time ago.’ She was hesitant. Then she smiled. ‘Well, if my brother can go off to our scheming aunt’s without telling me, I can go with my friend to his house. Isn’t that right?’ She approached him and took his arm. ‘Shall we go?’ she said. He smiled, took off his jacket, and made her put it on.
‘Oh, Sandy.’ Her face was suddenly ill again, only half alive. ‘I’m scared of what they might be planning there. You know they hate me. Everybody there hates me. They want to use me and hurt me and...’ She broke off to cry, her head bowed to his shoulder. ‘Oh, Sandy,’ she said again. He lifted her head, kissed her brow perfunctorily, and began to manoeuvre her towards the corridor. He placed one arm around her. Her feet slid across the floorboards as if she were learning to walk again after an accident. Sandy’s groin pulsed. He could not believe it. He was not even sixteen yet.