Or would have done, except that there was a frisson-inducing something about Margaret Thatcher that banished pity, sent it scurrying off into shadowland. She would despise anyone who felt sorry for her, he thought. She had a self-belief, not yet perhaps even fully formed or recognised by herself, that made him both admire her and fear for anyone who stood in her way. He thought about that, standing in her way, and far down inside himself the deeps parted and rolled asunder. At one crowded conference-do he observed other men, from opposing wings of the party, watching her slyly as she passed among them. He was not alone, he saw, in the way he was affected by her: she was not desirable but she was to be desired; she was not touchable but she could be worshipped; she was not winnable but she might make you hers with a smile. At last his turn came. He was introduced. She took his hand and leaned in towards him to catch his name. The warmth of her smile as they talked, the earnestness with which she listened, the conviction in her eyes as she expressed a view, were almost enough for him. Then as she moved on he cast his own eyes down and saw her legs, her shoes, and his conversion was complete. It was the nearest he would ever get to a religious experience.
§
Liz had an arrangement with Charlie, which at least meant they maintained contact. (She and Don had a phone in the house these days but Charlie never called.) Once a week she went shopping in Drumkirk and on her way to the bus stop with the messages she would stop in at Rinaldi’s for a coffee. Half eleven, every Thursday. If he hadn’t turned up by midday he wasn’t coming. She never asked what kept him away. That was off-limits. So was any mention of his father. But she was always there and most weeks, looking as if he were not long out of his bed, he joined her. He’d have a coffee himself, and a fag, and they’d talk, but there was little in her life he wanted to hear about and little in his he was willing to discuss. When they’d finished their coffees he walked her over to the bus stop. Once, when she had more bags than usual, he drove her home in his car. He helped carry the bags to the door but wouldn’t come in. She saw the disdain on his face: did I really grow up in this dump?
Granthill was a bigger dump but Charlie had made it his own. She’d not been there since the death of Don’s mother, three years before. Molly hadn’t in the end lost her mind, she’d just entered a kind of dream state in which almost her only requirements were the television, cigarettes and Heinz baked beans. She’d refused Don’s offer to come and live in Wharryburn even though she could have had the boys’ empty room, and Don, knowing that if she did come the burden of looking after her would fall on Liz, hadn’t pushed it. He’d seen her every weekend, timing his visits so that he and Charlie didn’t meet, and sometimes Liz had gone with him and between them they’d cleaned the place and reassured themselves that Molly was all right. It appeared that Charlie didn’t mistreat her. Molly wouldn’t hear a word against him. ‘There’s naething wrang wi Charlie,’ she said, to the end. ‘He’s a good laddie. I canna see what ye hae against him.’ When she said this she included Liz in her accusatory stare, and Liz said, ‘It’s no me, Molly. It’s between Charlie and his faither.’ ‘What is? It’s bloody nonsense, that’s what it is.’ ‘Forget it, Ma,’ Don said. ‘Aye, that’s what Charlie says tae. Bloody nonsense. Ye should grow up, baith o ye.’
She died in her sleep. For the first time ever Charlie phoned Liz, cool as you like, and told her. He’d already had the doctor out and the Co-op were on their way. His grandmother had kept up her funeral plan for decades and given him instructions about what to do. ‘Truce,’ he said to Liz. ‘You can come in here – you and him – and sort oot onything ye want. But one week efter the funeral that’s it. This is my hame and I’m staying here and I’m wanting it tae masel.’ They managed to get through that week without a fight – without much eye contact or many words spoken between Charlie and Don either – and Molly had been cremated and Charlie took on the tenancy of the flat.
The last time Liz was there was two days after the funeral. Don asked Bulldog to drive them down and they loaded his car with a few boxes of Molly’s clothes and possessions – a pitiful collection of cheap jewellery and photographs – nearly all of which, once they’d gone through it back at Wharryburn, they would throw out. Bulldog stood like a nervous sentinel beside his car while they carried the boxes down. The stair stank of urine, stale drink, and cat. Graffiti was everywhere. GRANTHILL TOI. DRUMKIRK CUMBIE RULE. IRA. GERS CUNTS. KILL ALL POOFS. As if all the poison of Scotland had leached into this tiny part of it. It felt like a vicious, hostile place but Charlie seemed at ease amid the squalor, and his Ford Capri sat outside in the rubbish-strewn street without a mark on it. There was something unnerving about that fact. Bulldog felt it too. Driving away he whistled and shook his head and said, ‘Jesus Christ. I kent Granthill was bad but I had nae idea. Nae idea.’ This from a man whose newspaper was always full of Granthill crime stories – street brawls, domestic assaults, vandalism. But Bulldog, overweight, jowly and short of breath, seldom left the office: he might as well have been editing stories from the dark side of the moon.
At the top of the street Liz looked back and saw Charlie’s car and she understood that the people who lived there knew who her son was, and that they were afraid of him.
§
There were strikes and power cuts and elections and a referendum on staying in the EEC. There was Gary Glitter. There was contraception on the NHS. There were the Bay City Rollers. There was a Sex Discrimination Act and an Equal Opportunities Commission to enforce it. There was punk rock. There wasn’t devolution. There weren’t children.
Billy said, ‘Why not?’
Barbara said, ‘I’m not ready.’
He said, ‘Well, we’ve been together long enough. When do you think you’ll be ready?’
She glared at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s no supposed tae mean onything.’ On the rare occasions he got passionate his voice shifted out of teacher mode and back into Wharryburn. ‘Are we gonnae hae bairns or no?’
Silence.
‘Because if we’re no, what the hell are we daein wi each other ony mair?’
‘Is that what you think this is about? Us having children?’
‘Well, what is it aboot, Barbara? I dinna ken ony mair. Dae you?’
She said, ‘You sound like your brother.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ He saw the look in her eyes, which said he’d just confirmed it.
It was about her father. The Lord Lucan of Wharryburn. He knew it was. But her father was forbidden territory. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Billy.’ Whenever they went to Glenrothes he saw the yearning in Sarah’s eyes, her desire for a grandchild. At least that’s what he thought he saw. But he didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to upset her.
He was almost beyond whether he upset Barbara or not.
§
Liz had just taken the first frothy sip of coffee when Charlie arrived and she knew at once that something was different. He came in with a fag already going, looking as if he’d been up all night. He kept checking the street through the window.
‘What’s the maitter, son?’
‘Nothing.’ A pause. ‘I’m making a few changes.’
‘Oh?’
‘Aye. I hope ye’re no wanting a lift hame the day. I’ve sellt the motor.’
‘Ye’ve sellt it?’
‘Aye.’
‘What are ye gonnae dae withoot your motor?’
‘Join the army,’ he said. ‘I’ll no need it. They’ll gie me a tank.’
She laughed and then stopped because she saw he meant it.
‘I’ve signed up. I’ve been thinking aboot it for a while. Had tae decide noo, ken, because they’ll no take ye if ye’re too auld. Twenty-six is the cut-aff.’
‘You, in the army? Ye’re having me on, Charlie.’
‘I’m no. I aye fancied it. I’ll make a good sodger. I’ve got the right temperament. That’s what they said in the recruiting office.’
‘They
don’t know ye. Ye’ll no take the discipline. Getting oot o your bed at God knows when. Obeying orders. Ye’ll no take ony o it.’
‘I will. There’s nothing I canna take. I’ve had enough of Drumkirk. Got tae dae something wi my life. They’ve accepted me, so that’s me away next week.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.
He grinned at her. ‘Ye’d better.’
There was a long pause while she took it in. She stared at him. His eyes kept flickering to the window. He sucked the life out of the first cigarette and lit a new one. She said, ‘What’s the real reason, son. Are ye in trouble?’
‘No really. No ony mair than usual.’
‘Is somebody hunting ye?’
He shook his head. ‘Think I’m feart?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well I’m no. It’s just time for a change.’
‘How come ye never said onything afore?’
‘Didna seem much point. I had tae go for a medical and aw that. Nae sense telling ye if I didna pass.’ He grinned again. ‘I passed, by the way.’
She asked more questions – where, when, how long? – and he gave her a reasonably full set of answers. But he wouldn’t be drawn any further on why.
She said, ‘I dinna want this, son.’
‘I’m daein it. I’ve signed on the line.’
‘Can ye no get oot o it?’
‘Aye, if I want tae, but I dinna want tae.’
Another long pause.
‘What’ll I say tae your faither?’
‘Say what ye like. Maybe he’ll be proud o me. He was a sodger once.’
‘That was different. There was a war on.’
‘There’s a war on noo, in Ireland. There’ll be plenty mair wars. That’s what sodgers are for, tae fight wars.’
‘And die in them.’
‘Dinna go aw sentimental on me, Ma. I’m twenty-five. I can make my ain decisions. I ken what I’m letting masel in for.’
‘Dae ye, son? Or are ye just needing tae get away frae something?’
‘I ken what I’m daein. Listen, I’ll need tae go. Ye’ll manage ower tae the bus, eh?’
‘I’ll hae tae. Will I see ye next week?’
‘Naw, I tellt ye, I’ll be away. Are ye greeting?’
‘Sorry, son. It’s just a shock, that’s all.’
‘I’ll write tae ye.’
‘Please.’
‘Awright, Ma. Are ye gaun as weel?’
‘No, I think I’ll hae another coffee.’
‘Awright. I better go. I’ll see ye.’
He stood and she stood too. He bent to kiss her cheek and she put her arms around him and felt how strong he was. He gave her a last kiss and a smile, her handsome wayward boy, and then he was out of the door, swiftly across the street and out of sight. As if he couldn’t get away fast enough. And she wondered what it was he was running from.
§
Billy wasn’t that keen on football but a couple of his teacher friends were. Daft for it. Could you be Scottish and male and not daft about football? Christ, he hoped so. What chance was there if not?
Nevertheless he was pissed off enough with Barbara that when his mates invited him on a weekend of debauchery in London, incorporating a return coach trip to alcoholic oblivion and a ticket to the deciding game of the Home International Championship, he accepted. The bus left Glasgow on the Friday night, they had from seven on the Saturday morning till ten at night in London, then it was back on the overnighter to Glasgow. Bed: not required. Change of clothing: not required. Head of steel and digestive system able to accommodate vast quantities of drink and fried food: essential. The back of the bus was so loaded with crates of lager it swayed like a cargo ship on tight bends before it hit the motorway. There were piss stops, a shite stop, a middle-of-the-night-snack stop and a breakfast stop and the same on the way back up. In between came the small matter of a football match at Wembley, which ended in a 2–1 victory for Scotland, delirious drunken happiness, an invasion of the pitch, the destruction of the goalposts and removal of much of the Wembley turf. An uplifting occasion. From what he could recollect, Billy enjoyed himself.
Maybe anything could be pleasurable if you were pissed enough.
Back in the flat on Sunday night, trying not to think about teaching the next morning, he was aware of a frostiness in the atmosphere as he and Barbara watched the news. The mayhem at and after the game was the main story. It had all seemed so good-humoured at the time. Barbara was not amused.
‘It’s a total embarrassment,’ she said. ‘Are you not ashamed of it?’
He’d been watching the footage anxiously, half-dreading, half-hoping he might see himself. He’d been pretty close to the goalposts about the time they collapsed. He had a clod of Wembley in his jacket pocket.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s embarrassing. Grown men behaving like that. It’ll probably never happen again. Still …’
‘Still?’
‘I’m so fucking glad I was there.’
§
‘I need tae tell ye something,’ Billy said.
‘What, son?’
‘I’m moving oot.’
‘Eh? Ye’ve been away for years.’
‘No frae here. I’m leaving Barbara. It’s mutual in fact. We’re splitting up. I’m sorry, I ken it’s no what ye want tae hear, but it’s no working.’
‘What isna?’
‘Our relationship.’
Billy had come home alone. They’d had a bowl of soup and a piece in the kitchen and now he and his father had gone for a walk up the hill, the old haunt. Liz had shooed them out. ‘I’ll dae the dishes.’ Billy hadn’t argued. The familiar layout and decor of the kitchen oppressed him. Apart from the acquisition of a few new appliances it had hardly changed in thirty years. It had taken the walk in the woods to free him up enough to break this news. The other news – that he’d be head of department from the start of the next academic year – had been easy.
Don and he stood at the edge of the trees, leaning on the dyke and taking in the moorland view, north towards Glenallan and the distant hills. This was better than looking at each other.
‘Your relationship?’ Don said. ‘What’s wrang wi it?’
‘We don’t communicate.’
‘So? Your mither and I dinna communicate.’ A pause. ‘Are ye seeing some other woman?’
‘No.’
‘Is she seeing some other man?’
‘No. It’s no that, Dad. We’ve changed. Baith o us have changed. I’ve learned a lot aboot masel. I feel trapped. She probably feels trapped, tae.’
‘Hmm.’
Billy felt compelled to say something else. ‘I feel like I’m on sufferance in my ain hame. Dinna pit your feet up there, when are ye gonnae fix this, clean that up, pit that stuff away, we’re no daein that, we’re daein this. It’s never-ending.’
‘I thought ye didna communicate.’
‘Ye ken what I mean.’
‘Billy, that’s what women dae. They organise. They build nests. They want us tae maintain the nest, no lie aboot in it. That’s why I spend so much time in the gairden. That’s why I hae a shed.’
‘I just want my ain space.’
‘Exactly.’
Half of what Billy had said wasn’t true anyway. Barbara didn’t nag much. Her tactic was to look bored, disappointed. Probably because she was. Probably that was how he looked at her. But he’d been trying to explain it in some way he thought his father might understand. Patronising him, in other words. He said, ‘I need my freedom back.’
Don laughed.
‘I thought it was the women that had got a taste for liberation,’ he said. ‘Barbara never struck me as much of a nest-builder, right enough. But noo it’s you that wants your freedom back. Weel, is it really freedom or is just selfishness? I’m no getting at ye, son, I’m just asking the question.’
Billy shrugged. ‘I dinna ken. Maybe it’s baith. Maybe it’s just part of the process. But I know we have tae s
eparate.’
‘Ye’ve nae sticking power,’ Don said. ‘That’s half the trouble. No just yersel, your haill generation. Look at your mither and me. We dinna see eye tae eye on a lot o things but we’ve stuck thegither. It’s the only way tae get through life.’
‘I don’t agree. And ye canna say Barbara and me havena gien it a fair shot.’
‘Aye, that’s true. Weel, at least there’s nae bairns involved. I’m sorry, Billy, truly I am. That’s a lot o your life ye’ve wasted wi her.’
‘It’s no wasted. We did a lot. We’ve learned a lot. And I’ve got on fine wi the teaching.’
‘Aye, ye’ve done weel. I’m proud of ye. So’s your mither, even if she disna let on.’
‘How is she? Is she all right?’
‘You’ve seen her. What d’ye think yersel?’
‘She seems tired. A bit flat.’
‘She’s all right.’
‘I ken she’s never had ony time for Barbara. That’s why I wanted tae tell you this first. Will you tell her?’
‘No. You tell her when we get hame. I’ll go oot in the gairden. You tell her.’
‘She’ll be pleased.’
‘I dinna think so, son.’
‘She’ll say, “I tellt ye.” ’
‘No she’ll no. She’ll be sorry that ye’re hurt. Are ye hurt, Billy?’
And the Land Lay Still Page 58
