The Walk Home Part 5

Jozef nodded, but found himself irked too.

He didn't need to be told. He'd become a clock-watcher here in Glasgow, much as it annoyed him. The plasterer he'd sacked had started a second job alongside, which he'd done at weekends, so this was fine by Jozef. Except when the man went to buy render, he took to dropping off materials at the other place, adding an hour to every trip. And then he started skimming supplies from Jozef's orders. As though Jozef was too foreign, or too much of a pushover to see he was being robbed.

Wary of a repeat, Jozef had been keeping an eye on progress in the top flat, and he'd seen how Stevie and Marek got on well, but they got on with the work too, fitting all the skirting boards and architraves. The boy re-hung the doors, swift but careful with the chisel, just as Jozef had learned to be, years ago now, when he was first apprenticed. The boy had been taught by Romek, no doubt, and it had not gone unnoticed by the other men, how this new one kept his tools, neat as any Gda"sk carpenter. He didn't brag like one, though: Marek was always talking, talking on the job, and Stevie shot back occasional one-liners, bettering his jokes, but mostly he just set the pace, not wasting time on words. The boy kept the windows wide, and his radio on loud, and even on days when Jozef came up straight after breakfast, he'd be well into a task, his bedroll already folded neat in the corner, ancient trainers out on the windowsill. Jozef had searched but found no mess, or belongings scattered, no trace he was taking advantage. But not much clue as to who this boy was either, so he had only one way to defend him to Tomas.

"He works hard. Just like a Pole."

"We all do. I still don't like it."

Jozef didn't share Tomas's doubts, but as the second week started, they had him watchful of the boy just the same. Noticing he ate lunch with the men now: bread rolls that he stuffed with crisps, and whole packets of biscuits at a sitting, and that he ate much the same thing in the evenings. Jozef had lived on toast and biscuits in the months after Ewa went back to Poland; on whatever he could get at the service station, driving home late from jobs. He'd drunk too much as well, until Romek and Tomas stepped in. The boy didn't drink, not in any quant.i.ty, but he was all bony young shoulders and bitten-down fingernails, and he was roughing it, every night, on bare floorboards. Jozef got to thinking that Tomas might be right too, about his age. But then he had to stop himself noticing, or he'd be cooking him meals next. What counted here was the boy's usefulness.

In London, Romek had used him for plastering, but it turned out he could tile too, if he had someone with him to check the s.p.a.cing, so Jozef left that to Marek. The developer was due for a first inspection at the end of the week, and even though Tomas complained, Jozef set the two boys to get the top bathrooms tiled, main and ensuite, in time for Friday morning.

That gave them three days, which Jozef thought would be fine, except on Tuesday morning the supplier sent the wrong tiles. The right ones were stone and expensive, not easy to get hold of, and it was lunchtime before the shop admitted their mistake. Jozef ended up taking Stevie with him to argue it out; not to talk for him, the boy was no talker, but the supplier wouldn't make poor excuses with a native speaker there to hear him.

The tile delivery was just a stupid mistake, the kind that happened on every job, but Jozef had started to feel they dogged him here in Scotland. And then the supplier could only find half the meterage they needed on the shelves, which didn't help his mood. Jozef thought the man had been lying all the while, so he stood and swore at him in the wide warehouse aisle, while Stevie loaded the too-few boxes into the van in silence.

The tiles were the same as Jozef had used on his last job, the one he'd had to abandon when the money ran out. Still riled, he found himself telling Stevie about it on the drive back to the South Side: how he'd persisted, wanting his men paid for the weeks they'd done before the developer pulled the plug. It was hard to say how much the boy was listening, but it was a release, in any case, to have that short harangue, and they got across the river quicker than he expected, so then Jozef drove a short detour to take a look at the Mount Florida tenement. Four storeys, unfinished and still covered in scaffold; he stopped the van outside, between the rows of parked cars, and narrowed his eyes at the poles against the afternoon sun.

"So the scaffolder hasn't got his money yet. He told me he will leave all that up until he gets the cheque. Make the place look ugly, yes? Make sure it won't sell, or not for a good price."

Jozef shook his head. Who did it help if the tenement looked desolate? He was still waiting for payment himself, for materials he'd bought, and he told Stevie there were boxes of tiles locked inside there: enough to finish the South Side bathrooms, perhaps.

"I still have the keys, even."

But the doors and windows were all boarded over, ground floor and first, and keys were useless with all those steel grilles in place, so Jozef shook his head again, and put the van in reverse. Stevie squinted through the windscreen at the upper storeys as they drew away, but made no comment.

It was Wednesday and halfway through the morning that Jozef realised the boy's radio wasn't playing. He went upstairs and found no trace of him or Marek, and no sign of the van on the street below. No answer from either of their mobiles. Tomas was quick to carp: "Now it starts, see? You put Marek with me again tomorrow."

And Jozef thought he might, but then the two wanderers returned, grinning, at lunchtime. They came into the ground-floor kitchen where everyone was eating, back door open to the sunshine, and Marek pointed over at Stevie in the hallway, who had a tile box in his hands.

"He climbed. He climbed into the tenement."

Marek spoke loud, in a rush to get the news out.

"Stevie went up the scaffolding and in through a window. Second floor. He got into the stairwell, easy as anything."

Jozef's nephew, said they'd taken a crow bar, and Stevie had splintered the window frame. But they'd taken the keys from Jozef's room as well, and the boy turned to him to emphasise: "I've done nae damage inside, aye?"

Jozef was speechless. But Tomas wasn't: he threw down his fork, and shouted at Marek in Polish.

"You want to bring the law here? See us out of work?"

Marek put a hand up in protest, but Tomas wasn't to be halted.

"What will you tell my wife then? And Jozef's sisters? How will you explain it? You'll have to tell them it was your fault. And then what will they say to your mother, when they see her at ma.s.s?"

They all lived in the same Gda"sk neighbourhood, pretty much, and most of the men in the kitchen knew Marek's father, so news would get back to him fast, especially if it was bad. But then Stevie spoke out: "What you tearin intae him for? It was my idea."

He was still in the hallway, his eyes on Tomas now, defiant.

"They tiles are his anyhow." The boy pointed at Jozef. "Bought an paid for. Am I right?"

Stevie turned to him again, this time for confirmation, and Jozef thought he'd given no sign at the time, but the boy had picked up on everything he'd said driving back from the warehouse. The tiles would finish the job, and the receipts must be in the other room, somewhere inside his boxes. But then Jozef waved the idea off, sure receipts wouldn't be much use against the police. Or the developer, if he found out. The developer was coming in two days, and then all Jozef could think was that they were behind.

They had no time to waste on arguments, so he turned to Mareka"one of Ewa's, in his chargea"and he searched for words to put an end to the matter; English ones, so the boy would understand too. They had to keep in mind the other men, and their families, they had to think beyond themselves. Only then Stevie cut in: "We can get on wae they bathrooms anyhow. Catch up wae oursels."

Tomas made a noise in his throat, but he said nothing. Jozef knew he was thinking of August, of time with his grandsons. And then he saw that no one was eating any more: all the men in the kitchen were packing away their boxes and flasks. They were embarra.s.sed, Jozef could feel it, at his lack of command, and he looked to Tomas, but Tomas gave no help, he just picked up his coffee and took it out to the back step.

So then Jozef threw his hands up.

"I don't want to hear more."

He had to take charge here. He told his nephew: "Just get those walls done."

Marek nodded, relieved. Probably thinking his family wouldn't be told.

Stevie nodded too, but he kept his eyes on Jozef, as if he was expecting something more. It was a strange look: what did he want? What else was there to say now? Jozef couldn't threaten to call his family. He didn't even know if that would keep him in check, the way it did with Marek. Unsure of him and the wisdom of hiring him, Jozef turned away from his worn clothes, and his worn young face, and the stolen tile box in his hands. What on earth kind of family did he come from?

9.

Sat.u.r.day morning, and Brenda had to work, so she was glad to have Lindsey with her, and Stevie too, on the bus off the scheme, headed for the leafy West End streets.

Brenda didn't have their company so much on cleaning days now, not since Lindsey had started going to Eric's house. The girl had stopped taking Stevie out of schoola"she said it was learning that would get him on in life, and Eric was proofa"and she didn't rely so much on Brenda for jobs, Lindsey found herself houses to suit the shape of the school days. She had a new purpose about her altogether, forever filling in forms for council transfers, and showing her face at the housing office. She told Brenda on the bus: "Our names have been on that list long enough."

So she was going to push them further up.

"Somebody has to."

Brenda had to smile at that drive of hers. It did a soul good to have Lindsey around, and not just hers and Graham's, the girl had been a blessing for Eric too, these past few months. She'd put a fire under her brother that Brenda hadn't seen for ages.

Eric looked forward to the Tuesdays that Lindsey came. Brenda was mostly first to arrive, and he'd be busy in the kitchen, getting the tea brewed for when the girl turned up. He set out the mugs on a tray, and a whole pile of biscuits meant for her boy, hungry after his school day. Eric liked to spoil his wee nephew, whispering jokes and stories, elbow to elbow on the sofa, while Lindsey and Brenda got on with the housework. He showed Stevie pictures in books, of what the Clyde used to look like with all the docks, and famous paintings as well; Eric had told him all about the Glasgow Boys and others, and about the ships he'd drawn at Greenock that went on to sail the oceans. He gave Stevie bread spread thick with b.u.t.ter too, deep enough to see the bite marks. But Brenda knew the main event was Lindsey, so mostly she just told the girl to finish up after they'd dusted: I can manage the rest, hen. Better she went and sat with Eric and her boy.

Lindsey got Stevie to show her Eric's library books, and tell her what he'd learned here, on the sofa with his uncle: testing him on the names of the shipyards, the seven seas and all the continents. Stevie could remember most stuff he was told, so he could say what paintings were called too, and who they were by, and how they were kept in museums and galleries.

"Aye, they're far from here, son."

"He's seen them, but." Stevie spoke like Eric was a man of the world.

"I've seen some ae them, aye." Brenda heard her brother's smile. "The wans in Edinburgh, an in London."

Eric had gone all over in his years with Franny, so he'd been to more places than most in the family, and Brenda knew that counted for something with Lindsey. It was talk of cities the girl liked best, and she was glad when her brother cottoned on to that; when she heard him asking: "Where would you go, hen? If you could go anywhere."

And then Lindsey laughing. "Ach. Where do I start, but?"

It was a game they played on her visits: places to see, places to live. Lindsey had whole lists, Scotland and beyond. Further flung than she'd ever let on to Brenda, who only heard her talk of Glasgow, of housing a.s.sociations and part-ownership. But everyone needed a dream in life, so it was good to hear Eric indulge her. And to see how Lindsey repaid him.

He always had a roll of his own pictures lying ready for her on his bureau: whatever he'd been working on that fortnight. He'd fumble, a bit nervy, while he uncurled the papers, pinning one side down with the teapot, the other with his palm, but he still looked glad of having Lindsey there to look at them, beckoning her over, then standing to one side while she leaned over his drawings. Some visits he even tacked them up on the wall for her.

That was Lindsey's ideaa"go on, you know how great they area"and Eric was shy of it at first, starting with just sc.r.a.ps and torn-off corners, building up slow to sheets of best cartridge. He took slow pride in what he drew now, and Brenda liked to see that; the way her brother took to pinning his sketches on the far side of the big room, so as they'd catch the best light.

Eric still drew people, mostly; people and Glasgow. But he was putting more time and care into getting them done right. Sometimes her brother would sketch the same places and faces all across the paper, and when he showed Lindsey, he asked her which ones she liked, and why. Nice to be asked. To find common ground like they had.

Eric had never shown Brenda his drawings, but she didn't hold that against him, or not for long anyhow. Lindsey knew her Bible, much better than she did, for all Papa Robert's efforts, and the folk in Eric's pictures just looked like strangers to Brenda, standing alone or talking, in kitchens or close-mouths. But the way he and Lindsey spoke, it was like they knew them, the whole story. Eric had to feed Lindsey a line on occasions, or find a verse for her to read, but the girl had a quick mind, and she was always quick to nod then, and to go with what he was getting at. Who else did she get to talk with like this? Back and forth, different ideas and thoughts; Lindsey and Eric could go on like that for hours, and Brenda tried, but she couldn't see what they saw in those sketches.

Stevie couldn't join in with that either, so he'd get restless. He'd slip off his Mum's lap and into the kitchen, and then Brenda would hear him, even over the noise of the hoover, rummaging through Eric's cupboards to get at the biscuit tin. Or she'd find him kicking idle about the rooms. She'd caught him in the hallway, not long back, with his fingers busy in a tray of Eric's postcards, and Brenda knew how easy boredom spilled into mischief, because all her sons had done the same, back when she used to bring them. So she hadn't shouted, just turned out Stevie's pockets, all empty, and then she'd shooed him back into the big room. Leave your Maw an Eric be, mind; they're nearly done now.

Stevie wandered along the shelves, running his fingers along Eric's files, a rattling noise, and Lindsey frowned at him. No touching. But Brenda thought her grandson had chosen well there, right on target. Because she saw the way Lindsey looked at Eric's boxes too sometimes: sharp-eyed, like she wanted to tug them out and get at what was inside.

Lindsey always wanted to hear more about Eric, so Brenda half expected some questions from her this morning, about his younger days and if he'd always been different. Lindsey liked to hear about Franny too, and if she'd been like him; Franny wasn't from Drumchapel, and it tickled Brenda, how Lindsey thought that was exciting. If they s.n.a.t.c.hed some cleaning time together these days, the girl mostly had something to ask, and it was just nice, all round, how interested she was, so Brenda looked forward to their talks, especially when they were about her sister-in-law.

Franny was a rare person. Thirty-two the first time Brenda met her, she'd been earning her own keep for years. Franny was a secretary in Eric's shipyard offices, and her family would have sooner she was married with a brood, but she'd called herself an old maid, like she was proud. She was older than Eric, and it had made her laugh, but then Franny could laugh about most things, even things that were hard. She'd been poorly, she'd had a couple of operations, but she was better by the time she and Eric were courting, back living in her own place. She always said she was happiest that way: no one to depend upon, just herself, so she put on lipstick and went to the pictures most evenings after work. Talking to Franny had made Brenda feel light. She told Lindsey how she was married with three boys by that stage, and she'd worried no end about her brother: Eric was pushing thirty, and he was clever with a pencil, but so quiet with people, she'd thought he'd stay a bachelor for ever. So Franny was a gift.

She was also sorely missed.

It always came down to that: final and stark. So even if most of the remembering was nice, and even though there was much, much more to tell, Brenda and Lindsey would mostly end up falling quiet. Aye, life's been hard on Eric.

One time Stevie asked what that last bit meant, and Lindsey pulled him close, telling him Uncle Eric was sad. Not a word to him about his wife, son. You hear? It's not nice to pry. He'll maybe tell us about Auntie Franny himself. Best to wait.

Except Brenda could see Lindsey wasn't good at waiting. All their s.n.a.t.c.hed talks just set off more thoughts, and she hadn't heard nearly enough yet. The girl had tapped at Eric's box files when they were leaving, just last Tuesday, and she'd told him: "You should put more drawings on your walls. Must be plenty great ones in that lot."

Brenda thought she meant pictures of Franny. Else why all those questions? Lindsey wanted to see evidence: Eric's wife and the new life they'd made, the two of them, beyond Drumchapel. Brenda reckoned the girl was right as well, Eric must have drawn his Frances a hundred times, more than.

She knew about her brother's special picture, and Brenda thought it was bound to be of Franny, if he ever got it right. It seemed like he started another drawing of her every couple of months, but none of them made it onto the walls. Eric just kept them filed, or he tore them into pieces: Brenda had found ones he'd discarded before, in shreds or tight b.a.l.l.s, in the kitchen bin, when she'd been tidying. She'd been tempted, but she'd never taken them out. She still hoped to be shown sometime, though.

Brenda was full of thought as they got off the bus and walked through Hyndland. Stevie dawdled round the corners and Lindsey had to chivvy him along. It was a big flat they'd be cleaning, grand tenement ground floor, main door, and most of the floors parquet, but at least the owners would be out, so they'd have peace and the place to themselves. It wasn't too far from Eric's either, only a quick cut through the Botanics and along the Kelvin, so Brenda unlocked the doors, thinking they could go and see him after. But just now they had to work.

Lindsey retuned the radio and they started in on the dust.

Stevie was all fidget through the rooms behind them, same as he'd been on the way here; like he didn't know what to do with himself. Not used to the long haul of a cleaning day any more, Brenda thought, and Lindsey gave him the bag she'd packed full of cars and Lego, but even after that he was still behind her every time she turned round, with a look on his face like he had something to tell her, except he couldn't remember what.

"Will you stop it?"

Lindsey laughed, a bit vexed, and she steered him towards the hallway.

"Go and play, will you?"

She pointed him over to the front door, where there was s.p.a.ce, and he wouldn't be in the way, and Brenda promised him a trip to a swing park for after. She reckoned they could fit that in on the way to Eric's, and it seemed to do the trick anyhow, because Stevie left them to get the beds made.

Only then she caught sight of him a bit later, crouched out in the hallway, and he still didn't seem right. Stevie had something in front of him on the floor, except it didn't look like one of his toys. Brenda had just made a start on the kitchen, but now her grandson had her distracted; elbows wrapped round his knees, he sat and squinted at whatever it was, like he'd been hunkered there for ages. She tapped at Lindsey's shoulder.

"What's he found?"

It looked like a photo, maybe, or a sc.r.a.p of paper, and Lindsey stopped wiping the surfaces and smiled about him a moment: "I wondered how he'd been so quiet."

She called to him: "What've you got, son?"

Leaning out into the hallway. Only then Stevie was on his feet, quick-smart, burying whatever it was in his armpit.

Lindsey raised her eyebrows at Brenda before she went to stand by her boy.

"I'm only asking." She spoke to him quiet. "Not telling you off. We'll have to put it back, though. Where's it from?"

She pointed at all the doors, leading off from the wide hall, like she thought he'd taken something from a mantelpiece or a drawer, but Stevie didn't answer. So Brenda stepped out into the hallway too, and then she and Lindsey were both standing over him.

"Mon, son."

"Where'd you get it?"

Stevie coloured up: "Eric's."

He told them: "It's only wan ae his drawings."

And he looked like he might cry. Lindsey frowned at him, puzzled, and then he pushed the paper into her hand.

It was a picture of Franny. It stung Brenda to see it. Her much-loved sister-in-law, head and shoulders, a bit creased from Stevie's pockets. Lindsey held it out to show hera"eyes wide, guessing righta"and Brenda nodded. Franny was sleepy in the drawing; early morning, turning forty, maybe, and pinning up her hair for work, all her curls; plump and pretty as she was.

"Did Eric give it you, love?" Brenda doubted her brother would do that.

Stevie shook his head, caught out, and then Lindsey launched: "Oh no, son. You just took it? That wasn't nice. That's Eric's wife. The one who died."

She took hold of his wrist, but Stevie wouldn't look at her, he just said: "I know that." Tight-lipped, like he was holding in tears. "I know it's Auntie Franny."

So Eric hadn't given him the drawing, but he must have been talking to Stevie about her.

It touched Brenda to think that: her brother, talking to her grandson, and about something he found so hard. Eric hadn't spoken to her about Franny in years, but she still remembered what he used to say, over and over, after she died. She earned her ain money, bought her ain clothes, and tidied up efter hersel. Still young when the cancer caught up wae her. I didnae get tae keep her long enough. Brenda felt herself nodding; Franny was a sad loss. Only then Stevie cut across her thoughts: "She was a Tim."

Lindsey blinked. Brenda caught her breath. What did he say? Stevie repeated: "Franny was a Tim. Her faimly. They were Catholic."

"Come again, son?"

Lindsey dropped his wrist, the wind taken out of her sails, and Stevie had his face turned up to them both, like he was bracing himself: "It's true, so it is. Eric tellt me."

He could tell he'd said something that mattered, even if he didn't know why yet, and Brenda stood and struggled not to shout, thinking Eric might have told him any number of things about Franny, but he wouldn't have used that word. Not Tim.

"You willnae say that again."

It came out sharp, more so than Brenda had meant, and it made Stevie flinch, Lindsey too. But where had he picked that up? Such a shock to hear it from a wee boy's mouth, and her grandson's to boot. It had left Brenda scattered, and she tried to gather her thoughts now, quick: Graham didn't hang about with the band crowd any more, so Stevie must have heard it in the playground or the park. How was it that folk still talked like that?

She'd heard plenty worse, of course, back when she was Stevie's age. There were battles most weeks, with kids from the Catholic school, across from the Kinning Park tenements. Clods of earth were thrown on the way in the mornings, and insults with them, from pavement to pavement; stones too, on occasion, and then the fighting would start, but mostly the two denominations kept to their own side of the road. Hullo Hullo, we are the Billy Boys. The older kids stood tall, singing out at the corner, at the parting of the ways, King William's troops triumphant over James. Up tae our knees in Fenian blood, surrender or you'll die! Brenda remembered whispering along behind them, excited and frightened, knowing her mother would slap her legs if she ever caught her joining in: her parents always told her the RC kids were to be tolerated, but preferably not played with.